To Catch a Soul
by At A Venture
Summary: Cordelia returns to W&H, bringing an opportunity to make all of Angel's dreams come true. BA
1. Chapter 1

_In a very slightly alternative universe, Angel is working at Wolfram & Hart. Spike, Wes, Gunn, Fred, Lorne, and Harmony work with him at the law firm. There will be some vague references to a Spike/Fred flirtation. Cordelia has passed away, but is living on a higher plane again, working for the PTB. This will be a multi-chapter story, so stay tuned!_

* * *

Angel sighed and turned over, nudging his head against the pillow, staring longingly at the brightly lit Los Angeles skyline. He'd been tossing and turning for an hour, struggling with the inner turmoil of another long day battling Wolfram and Hart from the inside, trying to help the helpless. His gut stirred, a sickly feeling rising up through his chest, into his throat, stinging his tongue. Groaning, he turned back over, closed his eyes, and like a light shutting off, fell down the rabbit hole into unconsciousness.

"Took you long enough," Cordelia Chase frowned, sitting down casually on the edge of the vast king size bed, tapping her fingers on her thigh.

"Cordy?" Angel blinked, sitting up. The satin sheet tumbled down his bare chest and pooled at his waist.

"I've been waiting for an hour. What's your problem? Need some Tylenol PM with your blood?"

"I...what?"

"Well, I'm not a ghost. Promise with the big guys upstairs. I don't haunt."

"I..."

"I'm here for a reason, Angel, so let's stop with the questions and get down to it." She straightened out her smile, crossed her legs on the bed, and sat forward. "If you could have anything in the world, would you want?"

"I..."

"No time to beat around the bush. Just be honest. Anything, if you could have it."

"You. Connor. World peace." Angel looked down at his hand, counting out the dreams on his fingers.

"Your fantasies, Angel. If you could have anything in the world, anything at all, the thing that you want the most."

"Buffy," Angel mumbled, almost as though he were ashamed. His eyes pointed down at the floor. His shoulders slumped as though weighted.

"Funny how I always seemed to fall for the guys in love with slayers. Even when I was evil." Cordelia shrugged. "Anyway, it isn't any old dream featuring Sunnydale's champion, is it?"

"Cordy..."

"It's fine. I already know. You fight a battle. You win. You kiss. You go at it like rabbits. And you don't go all grr."

"Only in my nightmares."

"What if I told you about a chance to make that dream reality?"

"I'd ask what's the catch."

"The PTB sent me, Angel. They want their champion back. And they're ready to cut you a deal." She moved closer to him, taking his hand in hers. Her fingers were soft, her touch gentle. Her gaze dropped down to analyze the creases in his skin. "I can't give you the Shanshu. I wouldn't know where to begin. I can't make you human, Angel. The PTB...well, it doesn't work that way."

"You still haven't told me the catch."

"I'm getting there. First the good news, right?"

"I'm listening."

"Right." Cordelia lifted her chin, glanced into the stern eyes gazing back at her. "The good news is that I can help you restore your soul, permanently. It isn't easy. In fact, it's really dangerous."

"If Spike can do it, so can I."

"I can lead you to the site of the trials, guide you in the necessary preparation, and be at your shoulder when you fight. We can remove the curse of the gypsies, Angel. We can put you on the path toward happiness."

"The catch, Cordy."

"Angel, did you listen to anything I had to say?"

"Permanent soul. Happiness. Powers that Be a pain in my ass. Yes, Cordelia. I heard you. It sounds great, maybe even too good to be true. How do I know this isn't the Senior Partners trying to fuck with me, again? How do I know that any of this is real? What is the catch? What do I have to give up to be happy? Tell me."

"Everything else."

Angel sat up suddenly, pushing back the covers and throwing his bare legs over the side of the bed. Morning light shone in through the blinds, leaving streaks of sunlight across his skin. The alarm clock bleeped loudly. Angel sighed, reaching up to brush the sleep out of his eyes. He blinked, trying to remember the dreams of the night before. Nothing came to him but the vague recollection of a slayer's skin beneath his fingertips, the scent of her hair clinging to his nostrils. With a groan, he stood up, pushed away the remnants of his bedding, and hobbled into the bathroom, flipping the knob on the shower. The phone in his bedroom rang angrily before the answering machine clicked on.

"Hey boss! Just calling to tell you that you have a ten o'clock meeting with Steve Miller, the Groshak demon. And you have a briefing about that meeting with Wes and Gunn at nine o'clock. Oh, and we've run out of pig's blood in the lounge so I put some on order for you. Let's see, what else? Oh, right, you have a business lunch with Fred and that guy from the Department of Developing World Diseases at that Chinese food place on Sunset. I'll have your breakfast on your desk. Bye!"

"Wow, Angel, you sleep okay?" Gunn asked, furrowing his brow as Angel slumped back against his chair and sucked down a sip of warm otter's blood.

"Like a rock. What's this Groshak thing?"

"Big thing. Likes kittens." Spike interjected before Wesley could answer.

"Yes. It appears that Mister Miller prefers the exotic kitten variety. He was arrested stealing white tiger kittens from the Griffith Park Zoo a few weeks ago."

"Since when did we start dealing with animal rights?"

"I'm sure that the big cat upstairs would appreciate our help on this one, Angel," Gunn frowned, nodding his head in the direction of the ceiling. "She's partial to felines."

"Always was a fan of kitten poker, myself. Back in Sunnydale, I was rich in…"

"Shut up Spike."

"Anyway, the Groshak…" Wes began.

"Steve-o," Spike muttered under his breath.

"Miller wants us to cover up his indiscretion with the zoo, and then purchase him several exotic feline breeding pairs."

"Just another day in Hell," Angel frowned.

The day screamed by like an epic nightmare, with one randomly weird and evil case after another. The Groshak compromised on the kittens of large endangered animal species, but Gunn found a loophole in the theft of tiger cubs from the zoo. At the lunch meeting with Fred, the head of the Department of Developing World Diseases got food poisoning from undercooked meat and had to be taken to the hospital. Spike and Fred made awkward googly eyes at one another across the conference table at a private meeting on street policies. At last, Angel retired to his penthouse above his office. He dimmed the lights and shed his clothes before crawling into bed with a book. The words on the page blurred into one another. Already, half-awake, he imagined the radiant warmth of the Slayer's flesh, the taste of her lips like honey and blood, the way her cheeks glowed red when he kissed her neck.

"Angel!" Cordelia growled, jabbing the sleeping vampire in the ribs with her fingers. "Have you listened to anything I've had to say?"


	2. Chapter 2

"What? Cordelia? When did you…?"

"You cut me off as I was getting to the bad part!" Cordelia frowned as she rolled over and faced him. She was lying beside him, glancing down at the book he'd dropped carelessly by his hip. The warm satin sheet dipped down her bare shoulder.

"I'm dreaming, right?"

"Of course you're dreaming! How else could we be having this conversation? I'm dead, remember?"

"Cordy, I'm…I'm so sorry…"

"Oh please, I'm over it. This is my last hurrah before retirement. I'm done being a champion. Most of us don't continue on after we hit heaven, you know."

"I'm having a déjà vu…"

"Of course you are! We started this whole thing last night, remember?"

"Everything…else."

"Right. Everything else is what you have to give up. It's the catch you were so iffy about last night."

"For restoring my…what did you mean, everything else?"

"Angel, the Powers need you. They can't fight evil on their own. They're willing to give you happiness if you give up everything else. It's a trade-off."

"Wolfram and Hart. Connor…I can't."

"You can. What's more, you have to. The big bad is real big here, Angel. It's huge. These are the people that screwed with our lives, killed our friends, had a big ol' part in the chain of events that led to Connor's existence!"

"And to your…"

"Something bigger than big is coming, Angel. It requires more than a crazy team of supernatural detectives to beat it back. It requires more than five hundred poorly trained slayers. It requires a vampire champion with a soul that won't jump out of him at the most inopportune moment. The shit is about to hit the fan, Angel. We need you. The world needs you. And Buffy Summers needs you."

"Buffy needs… She hasn't needed me in years, Cordy. She's got Spike to be her champion now." Angel grimaced, a bad taste on the back of his tongue.

"He's got a soul, sure. But he's still the same old Spike. He isn't you, Angel. Buffy needs you."

"I made the deal to protect Connor. If I sever the ties to Wolfram and Hart, he'll…he's dangerous Cordy."

"Angel, I'm not gonna sit here and convince you. This is what needs to be done, and you need to do it. Your mission is to save the world, big guy. Right now, all you're saving is a guy who eats expensive cats."

"I thought you didn't haunt?"

"I planted a supernatural walkie talkie in your desk." She smirked.

The alarm beeped incessantly, peeling Angel off the pillow shoved beneath his neck, dragging him out of cozy, comfy sleep. Images of sweaty limbs wrapped around his waist lingered in his brain. He could still taste her on his tongue, like the smooth memory of an after dinner mint. In the shower, rivulets of scalding water fell down the smooth skin of his back, collecting around the cleft of his buttocks, rolling over his muscular thighs. His lips parted slightly, her name on his tongue. Angel slumped against the tiled corner of the shower stall, murmuring, closing his eyes, rolling his skull back against the wall. The familiar ring of the phone echoed into the bathroom.

"You're glowing, Angel cakes. Sleep well?"

"What?" Angel asked, looking up from his desk at Lorne, dressed from head to toe in purple silk. "Oh, yeah. Took a sedative."

"I understand you're under stress, Boss Man. Luckily, I'm here to put a smile on that cute face of yours. I signed a couple of deals with some folks down in Animal Sacrifice. They agreed to take puppies off the menu if I got a new TV deal for this California guy, Joss…um…Something. Apparently, the demon crew are big fans."

"That's…great, Lorne."

"C'mon Boss, one smile for the cheap seats in the back."

"Puppy sacrifices…" Angel frowned, failing to push the corners of his mouth up into a grin. "What about virgin sacrifices?"

"Well, we're still working that one. One step at a time, Angelcakes!"

* * *

"Puppy sacrifices?" Cordelia squeaked, shocked.

"Why can't I remember these dreams when I wake up?" Angel frowned, turning over to see Cordelia curled up under the sheets beside him. She leaned her head on her hand, her elbow propped up on the mattress.

"Motivation."

"I'm sorry?"

"You're not motivated, Angel. When you realize that you have to seek out your soul, then you'll remember these dreams. Until then, I'm stuck trying to convince you in your sleep."

"If Connor goes back to wreaking havoc on Los Angeles, I won't be able to help Buffy. I'll be stuck here, cleaning up the mess."

"Angel, have you seen Connor since Wolfram and Hart put the whammy on him?"

"Only once."

"You need to see him. Trust me on this one."

"Cordy, I can't."

"You can. Angel, your son needs your help."

"No, I mean, I can't. I won't remember this when I wake up."

"Motivation, Angel. It's all about motivation. And, maybe, a little PTB mojo."

"And if I fix things with Connor, assuming that's even possible…"

"The Big Super Bad is coming, Angel. We need you. Buffy needs you. The world needs your help. Connor is just a piece of the big puzzle."


	3. Chapter 3

The sheets rustled as Angel opened his eyes and stared at the phone, as though waiting for it to ring. Something lingered in his brain, a memory, vague but buzzing like a fly trapped between his ears. Just beneath the surface of his subconscious, a lingering dream of the slayer's warm skin under the touch of his fingers, the kiss of her lips on his shoulder, the soft hum of her voice.

"Morning boss!" Harmony chimed over the phone as Angel tucked the receiver between his ear and shoulder. "You have a call on line two from the police department. Something about a kid and a demon last night. Also, a meeting at--"

"Patch it through to my office in two minutes, Harmony. I'm on my way down. And Harm…"

"Blood. On it! I bought the cutest little curly straws--" Angel grimaced and hung up the line, cutting off her saccharine voice. He threw his long legs into a pair of pants, tossed a shirt over his shoulders, and slid into his shoes as he jumped on the private elevator to the office below.

"Angel Investi…" He began, quickly correcting himself. "This is Angel."

"Angel, sir. Commissioner Johnson, LAPD. Picked up a distress call last night, weird M.O. Nineteen year old boy attacked by six Putuk demons outside a Wal-Mart in Westwood."

"There's a Wal-Mart in Westwood?"

"Yes, sir. Sir, the funny thing about the attack is that we arrived five minutes after the call and the Putuks were dead. Every single one of them."

"Any idea what they were after?"

"No, sir. We figured he was one of yours, made an appointment for him with the Department of Demon Recruits, but thought you should know, sir."

"I don't think we're expecting anyone. You have a name on him? A description?"

"Connor Smith, Sir. Stanford University freshman."

"Connor…" Angel breathed, dropping the phone onto the hook. _It's all about motivation. And maybe a little PTB mojo. _

"Harmony!" Angel bellowed into the intercom.

"Yeah Boss?"

"Call Demon Recruits. Have them send Connor Smith up as soon as he arrives."

"You got it Boss!"

"And where's my blood?"

Angel got up from the comfortable leather chair and stalked across the office, his hands shoved in his pants pockets. He curled his hands into fists, turned, and paced back in the direction he'd come from. Memories jingled like keys on a chain. Connor, his son, here in the office. How had he defeated Putuk demons? Those things were massive fighting machines, hard to take down without the right equipment. The warm scent of baby powder filled his nostrils, memories of an infant in his arms. Those days were so long ago.

"Boss?" Harmony squeaked from the doorway. Angel glanced up, avoiding the reluctant frown of his vampire assistant, letting his stare fall on the young man standing beside her. He half-smiled, his brown hair tousled around his square face, a cowlick sticking up in the back. He wore a striped collared shirt, the tails un-tucked, hanging around his waist. His khaki pants were baggy, his hands stuffed in their pockets.

"You must be Connor," Angel sputtered, choking on the swallow of saliva collecting in the back of his throat. "I'm Angel, CEO of Wolfram and Hart."

"Uh, hi." Connor smiled, his warm eyes ogling the office. "Big place you have here."

"I…yeah. Did you want something to eat? Er, drink?" Angel seemed to squeak with nervousness. "We have uh…anything. Right, Harmony?"

"You bet, Boss!"

"I'm fine. Thanks."

"Harmony, hold my calls." Harmony nodded and teetered back out of the office, closing the door behind her.

"When did they build that Wal-Mart in Westwood?" Connor asked, wandering around the office before slouching on the arm of a chair. "I swear, those things are going up all over."

"They're a client of…ours, I think. I'm pretty sure they're not trying to take over the world." He paused, changing tack. "So, how did you end up fighting…tell me about last night."

"Cordy visited me in a dream." Connor answered, shrugging his shoulders. He got up again, looked out the window blinds at the bright morning sun blazing into the office. "How are you not bursting into flame right now?"

"Special glass." Angel answered off-handedly. He blinked, as though Connor's words had been delayed. "Did you say Cordy?"

"Cordelia Chase. Part-demon, visions, connection to the Powers that Be, surrogate parent, lover, mother of my child which happened to be a weird demonic god thing. Yep. Cordy."

Angel stared blankly at the boy standing beside the window, his face as smooth and harmless as the day he'd been born. There seemed to be no remnants of the child that had tried to kill ten people and himself in a sporting goods store eight months before. Connor turned, half-frowned, and stepped a few feet closer to the man that had made him.

"I don't blame you. You were trying to protect me, keep me safe. I understand. I'm even thankful. Your choice gave me a purpose, Dad, a home. But it was just another trick from the big ol' Evil at Wolfram and Hart. I've always had the memories. I just tucked them away."

"They were supposed to alter reality. They were supposed to give you a new life."

"You gave me a new life, Dad. Wolfram and Hart just gave you a boost."

"What did Cordy tell you?"

"She told me to get your attention, to put myself in a position necessary to find you. She told me about Wolfram and Hart, about how you think you're stuck here because of me. And she told me about the mission. I'm so coming."

"You're not coming. Coming where?"

"You're not ready to know yet, I guess. She said something about motivation. But you're almost there, Dad. And I'm coming. We make a good team, when we're not trying to kill each other." _Motivation. It sounded so familiar._

"You said you don't blame me," Angel whispered, holding onto the corner of his desk.

"I forgive you, Dad, for sending me away. We have to do what we have to do. We have to protect the ones we love."


	4. Chapter 4

"You had to have put the sedative in your nightcap tonight," Cordelia smirked as she greeted Angel's subconscious for the fourth night in a row. "Hard to sleep after everything you saw today."

"My son. You brought back my son." Angel gasped, still amazed.

"More than that, I hope." Cordy frowned. "I was trying to show you that--"

"Wolfram and Hart is a lie," Angel finished. He slid out of bed and paced across the floor. "But Fred and Wes, Gunn, Lorne…they don't remember my son."

"They will." Cordy sighed, watching as he walked slowly across the floor. "You'll sever the ties with Wolfram and Hart, and their reality will be restored."

"By getting back my soul," Angel murmured, coming to a halt in front of the open window. Even in his dreams, the city sparkled.

"By getting back your soul." She straightened up, gazing at the curve of light that haloed his muscular frame. "I have one last thing to show you."

"Motivation?" Angel asked, turning his head, leaning his chin on his shoulder.

"Motivation to find your soul, just like Connor was your motivation to cut from the Evil law firm of Doom."

Angel blinked rapidly as the subconscious world spun out in front of him, the picture window sliding away, streams of paint on a canvas. Cold, wet grass rose up to meet him. He sprawled in the middle of a field, looking up at heavy grey clouds, ready to burst.

"Angel, this is your life," Cordy frowned, ironic. "Six weeks from today actually, assuming you stay in Los Angeles."

The earth rumbled beneath his back, a thousand pairs of feet rushing in a charge toward the meadow. Angel rolled over, pushed himself to his feet, and stared over the horizon. The clouds split, pouring freezing sleet down upon him, stinging his naked chest. A thousand slayers, most of them under the age of seventeen, rushed the field. They were heavily armed: battle axes slung over shoulders, crossbows and wooden stakes help out in front of their chests, broadswords at their backs. They ran through him and around him, turning him like a piece of paper in the wind, pulling him toward a dark frothing mass sucking up the world. Buffy pushed through the crowd, coming toward him, her face contorted, ready for battle.

"No!" Angel heard himself scream, his voice detached from his body. A sensation of dread rose from his gut, boiling up his esophagus, every organ bursting.

The slayer charged through him, her heart beating briefly against the stale organ in his chest. Her blood roared in his ears, filling him with awe and terror. In seconds, the sound would stop. Her life would disappear. She'd fade from view.

"Cordy," Angel begged, whirling around to find her standing still in the seething mass of slayers. "Make this stop! I can't let her die! I won't let her die…"

"You felt her inside you," Cordelia whispered against his ear, the hum of anxiety still echoing.

"She's always inside me."

"You'll cut ties with Wolfram and Hart. Leave a note for Wes. Don't take anything but the clothes on your back."

"I can't lose her again."

"You won't, Angel. You're back on track."

Angel opened his eyes and rolled out of bed. The dawn was still two hours away, darkness still covered the city. Without a sound, Angel opened the closet. He pulled out a stiff white shirt and a pair of rumpled slacks. Over them, he slid his arms into a dusty old coat. Side-stepping the elevator, he walked quickly down the stairs connecting the penthouse to his office. At his desk, he scribbled one world onto a sheet of scrap paper and slid it into a manila folder. Without looking back, Angel left the folder on Harmony's desk and stalked across the lobby to the stairs. The street was deserted but for a lonely limousine. Angel turned away and walked down the road, a weight falling off his shoulders as he disappeared.

Walking swiftly, he reached the hotel just as the sun began to taint the sky. The hinges on the gate in front of the Hyperion squealed as Angel moved into the garden. The front door yawned open like a waking friend. In the middle of the dusty floor, red paint still stained the floor in the shape of a pentacle. The desk was cluttered with old case files, abandoned telephones, crumpled scraps of paper. On one side of the room, a stack of folding chairs sat lopsided, a reminder of the path that had led them to Wolfram and Hart. Moving behind the check-in counter, Angel selected a book from the shelf in his office. He opened it on the counter, looking down at the inscription. His fingers trailed over the old print, memorizing a short list of ingredients. Each jar clinked on the counter-top as Angel threw together a collection of peculiar odds and ends. A dirty jar of mangrove root wobbled beside a plastic bag of dried flower petals. Some kind of slime substance oozed like lime flavored gelatin in a Tupperware container. Angel grabbed the book and the ingredients in his arms and carried them up the steps to the only unscathed piece of tile floor in the lobby.

With his fingers, Angel scooped a handful of the gelatin slime from its plastic container and began to draw on the floor with it. The scent of it was a peculiar cross between rotting eggs and melting chocolate. He retched even as he glanced over at the inscription in the book and began to read aloud.

"Commodo tribuo mihi meus animus. Extraho mihi orbis terrarum quod solvo mihi ex is torqueo." He winced as he pulled another handful of the magic substance up into his palm. "Commodo tribuo mihi meus animus. Sino mihi futurus cruciatus quod exertus." His fingers worked the goo into the tile, drawing with fervor. "Commodo tribuo mihi meus animus. Everto mihi ut vestri mos."

At last, Angel got to his feet and stood upon the gelatinous mess on the floor. In his dry fist, he clutched a handful of mixed herbs and seeds. Beyond the French doors, the sun rose up over Los Angeles, spreading rays across the South land. Fred and Wesley were probably already en route to the office. Harmony was yawning as she got out of bed. Gunn groaned as he sat up at his desk, having slept there through the night while working on a case. It was another Thursday at Wolfram and Hart for everyone but Angel.

"Tribuo mihi meus animus. Tribuo mihi meus animus. Tribuo mihi meus animus!" Angel cried as he threw the last of the ingredients into the air and let them fall over his shoulders and onto the floor. The intricately drawn eight sided star beneath his feet began to glow. Arms of lime Jello reached up from the floor and wrapped around his legs. The floor melted beneath him, sucking him down into the earth. With just his head and shoulders above the surface of the oozing tile floor, Angel raised his eyes to the ceiling.

"Buffy! I love you!" Angel cried as he was sucked into the ground with a final, echoing splash.


	5. Chapter 5

"Portals," Angel grumbled as he pushed himself off the dusty floor of what appeared to be a system of rocky tunnels. Green gelatin dripped from his arms and chest and plopped onto the floor. "I hate portals."

"Yeah, next time I fly Delta," Cordy smirked, appearing rather suddenly beside him, fixing the wavy curls around her cheeks.

"This doesn't seem like the best place for a dream, Cordy." Angel frowned, wiping his sticky hands off on his pants.

"Luckily, you're awake, big guy. I can't follow you in," she began, tilting her chin toward a long, dark tunnel a few feet away. "But I can give you some pointers."

"I've had a soul for more than a hundred years. I don't think I can suffer anymore than I already have."

"Well, this isn't the same dimension Spike came to, Angel. There are special rules for guys like you."

"Of course there are."

"No weapons of course. They won't want to make it easy for you. But I just want you to know, it isn't real. On the other side, the world still exists. The mission will greet you at the end. I'll see you again."

"You said I had six weeks," Angel frowned anxiously.

"Yep. Six weeks from a few days ago. Just remember, today is the first."

"Appropriate."

"It's a PTB thing." Cordy smiled, a warm light claiming her figure as the Powers called her back toward her own dimension. "Angel,"

"Cordy."

"Good luck." She smiled, cradling his face with her hand. Her skin was warm, her palm as soft as air. In the wake of her dissipation, the darkened cave glittered.

Angel turned toward the mouth of the cave, and without a pause, stalked down the tunnel toward his destiny. The roof and walls were lined with crumbling dirt which eroded around him as he walked. Small roots stuck out in places, revealing life somewhere above his head. Vaguely, he wondered about his whereabouts, whether the sun was gazing down on the earth above his head, what season it was here, and why this place had been chosen for this task.

"You think too much, vampire." A voice boomed near his left ear, sending a chill down his back. "In this place, they can hear you thinking."

"I don't like mind games." Angel growled in response, moving faster through the empty darkness. The earth began to slope downward, giving way beneath his feet.

"Oh, but I do, vampire." The voice chuckled, pressing a weight against his shoulders and shoving suddenly. Angel stumbled forward, wobbling on the tips of his toes until the floor crumbled and broke. His voice leaped from his chest in a surprised yell. Icy wind rose up from far beneath the earth, whooshing past his ears as he fell, hundreds of feet beneath the world, sinking like a rock.

"Liam?" A voice whimpered hesitantly in the inky black space. Angel shook clumps of dirt from his hair, lifting his face to listen to the small female child.

"Kathy?" He whispered, pressing his hands against the ground, pushing himself slowly to his feet. His bones creaked and a sharp hand came down against his shoulder, slamming him back against the earth.

"Don't get up, boy."

"Don't be so mean to him. He's only a child."

"Liam! I missed you! Why didn't you come home?"

The voices whirled around him, unseen. A thousand memories of life rose up from the dust. The face of his sweet sister, Kathy loomed up before his eyes, though in the cave he could not see her. The fragrant scent of jasmine blossoms, a scent on his mother's skirts, soaked the distant walls. His father's stern hand raised gooseflesh on the back of his neck.

"He isn't a boy any longer! He's a grown man! No job, no prospects, just a lay about!"

"What happened to that nice girl? Lucy? You were interested in her, weren't you, Liam?"

"Can't we go and play, brother?"

"Stop!" Angel growled, covering his ears with dirty hands, struggling to his feet a second time. Hands came down, shoving him again to the floor, pinning his chest against the ground. Sharp stabs of cold stung his arms and legs, like prodding knives made of ice.

"Liam! You've come back to me! An angel!" Kathy squealed with joy, her voice a reverberating echo. "I knew you wouldn't leave me, brother!"

"No…no…" Angel whimpered, struggling against the force that held him still.

"What are you…what…" Kathy whimpered. "Don't…Liam, please. Please…"

Blood dripped down his tongue, clogging the back of his throat, sticking to the roof of his mouth.

"Demon! Evil, vile creature! Get back!" His father's voice, filled with fear and hatred and pain. In the din, Angel smelled it, intoxicating and sensuous, like the touch of a woman.

"Please, son…please," His mother had tasted of apple tarts and jasmine, a taste he'd forgotten with time, a taste that came back to him in force. The walls ran with blood, filling the room with damp heat. The beating hearts of his family echoed in his ears, their blood wet his tongue, making him salivate in spite of himself.

"Angel…" Buffy's voice whimpered above the rushing of blood pumping into the cave. She had tasted like love, and passion. Chocolate and perfume, sweat and sex, desire and death, and a hint of demon. Angel choked, holding his throat with both hands, struggling to spit her out. "Please…"

"Even these demons, you avoid, vampire." The voice whispered, giggling maniacally. "But no longer."

Somewhere along the floor, a small hole opened up. Blood drained from the room, clanking against ancient copper pipes, gurgling as gravity pulled the life-giving liquid down into the bowels of the earth. Angel coughed, spitting up as many memories as he could. Blood splattered on the mud-like floor, but more stuck to the roof of his mouth, staining his teeth a ghastly rust red.

"Is that all?" Angel growled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, peeling off his stained and heavy shirt to drop it on the ground. His elbows grazed a hard, solid surface that had not been there a moment before. Blinking against the black, Angel reached out in front of him to discard the bloody garment. His hand bumped heavily against another hard, solid surface.

"Not all, vampire. Not all." The voice hissed, lifting the hairs on the back of his neck.

"Angel!" Buffy's voice screamed suddenly, the sound breaking off as though a hand had closed around her throat. She squeaked feebly and all around him was silent.

"Buffy!" Angel cried back, reaching up above his head for something to grab onto. His fingernails scraped against thick, muddy earth only a few inches above his head. Angel clawed uselessly at the ceiling, ripping away chunks of earth that fell around his shoulders.

"Angel! Please…!" Her voice again, faintly echoing above his head, bouncing around his ears like a dream.

"I'm coming, Buffy! Just hold on!"

Angel squirmed inside the tiny enclosure, ripping at the walls and the ceiling, throwing his fists and legs against every hard surface, prying away dirt. Somewhere in the back of his brain, the demon within grinned with pleasure. The whole experience was remarkably familiar. A vampire never forgets the way he crawled out of the earth into the great wide world.

"You can't save her," it grimaced, laughing darkly.

"I will save her." Angel grunted, tearing away another fistful of dirt.

"She's already dead."

"She's alive."

"No, she's dead. Hehe," it growled. "Dead from the waist down, anyway."

"Shut up!"

"Slept with Spike, the stupid wench. Left poor brooding boy all alone with coma girl."

"Buffy! Just hang on!"

"It's no use. You're stuck with me, in here, forever."

"I will save her!"

"I'll eat away at you, at your stale heart, at your broken soul. You can't escape me."

Angel roared and shoved his fist up through the ceiling, ripping away layers of skin and sinew, fingernails and slivers of bone. Rock shattered above his head and fell around his shoulders and face. His fingers burned as he reached out above the grave, grasping at cold grass and sunlight.

"Die in the sun or cower in the earth," the demon cackled.

"I'd rather die to save her then live in here with you!" Angel grunted, ignoring the stinging pain of the sun, scrambling to make the hole he'd formed larger. Light poured through cracks in the earth, burning into his cold flesh. Thrusting both hands through the gaping hole, Angel lifted himself out of the grave, ripping his burning skin on the jagged rocks that lie within the ground.

"There's no escape," Angelus grinned, standing in the beaming sunlight, his hand clenched around Buffy's throat, drops of blood spilling from two puncture holes in her neck.

"No!" Angel roared, tearing across the dewy grass, launching himself into the air, throwing his weight into the demon's chest. Buffy fell away like a wet sock, fainting against the earth.

"Oh come on, like you haven't wanted to taste her again? Like sweat and sex, right? I'm in your head! Soon you'll be in mine!"

"Never again!" Angel retorted, his face contorting, fangs sharpening. In his own image, Angelus' fangs sank down over his flickering tongue, his eyes burning bright yellow.

"Hey, did Cordelia tell you? If you lose this, you're mine, forever." Angelus grinned, lifting a broadsword from the air and swiping it cleanly through the space in front of his ensouled other half.

"Guess she knew I wouldn't fail." Angel retorted, moving back from the blade and throwing a solid punch against his foe, catching him forcefully in the gut.

"Maybe she just didn't want to disappoint you!" Angelus laughed, lunging forward with the sword, whacking Angel with the hilt.

"This is your last battle. Maybe you should shut the hell up and make it count!"

Angel grabbed for the sword. As soon as he pulled it into his hands, it lit up like a torch and fell between his fingers in ashes. Angelus grinned, throwing a firm punch that split Angel's lip, blood stinging his tongue once again. Fists flew through the air, cracking bone and splitting flesh. Angel threw a dangerous right hook against his opponent, sending a shocking wave of pain splitting through Angelus' skull. In roaring anger, Angelus pulled another sword from the ether and thrust it forward, shoving it brutally into Angel's gut, barely missing his spine. Blood spilled from the wound as Angel cried in pain, holding onto the hilt of the sword and wobbling.

"Give up, old boy. Give up and give in," Angelus gasped, as though it were possible to be winded.

"Never," Angel groaned, in agony. He fell to his knees against the soft, wet grass. Blood continued to ooze down his back and chest, sticky and sweet-scented.

"I'll make her the finest demon I've ever sired." Angelus grinned, stooping down to cradle Buffy's cheek. "A better companion than Darla ever was."

"Take your hands…off of her," Angel grunted, yanking the blade from his stomach and whirling it forcefully through the air. It connected with Angelus' throat, severing the connection between head and torso. The head flew through the sky, dust scattered like cremated ashes.

"I love mind games," the voice chuckled, darkening the sky and killing the grass. A smooth wooden floor spread out beneath him. Walls painted a silky olive glowed with pearly sconces and shiny yellow bulbs. In a large, overstuffed green armchair, an old man folded a yellowing newspaper on his lap and rested his hands over his crossed knees.

"Your friend, Cordelia Chase. She cheated, told you it wasn't real. I had to convince you."

"You made it harder."

"Well, you have been suffering for quite some time now. I couldn't make it easy for you. Anyway, I was quite entertained."

"That's…great."

"Yes, well, anyway, I have another client lined up. If you could just sign right here…"

Angel looked down as a small podium materialized before him. On top of it sat a crisp linen parchment. The swirling scroll was written in English, and beneath a gentle poem about the purity of the soul, there was a small red _x_ and a straight line. Angel picked up a fountain pen set neatly beside the document.

"You know, the Powers that Be really are just a bunch of bureaucrats," the embodied voice chuckled from its chair. "I really must get my kicks in some way."

"Yeah, great." Angel frowned, holding his hand against the wound that still oozed.

"Good luck in your quest, vampire. And do enjoy that soul of yours."

Angel fell abruptly against the ground. Wet blades of cold grass curled around his arms and torso. Moisture from above and below soaked into his torn, bloodied, dirty slacks. Pain seared through a gaping hole in his gut. Somewhere near his right, a lamb bleated with an undertone of annoyance. Somehow, Angel had fallen into a herd of cream-colored sheep.

"Yep," Cordy nodded, pulling an umbrella out of her pocket and holding it up over her head. "Delta is definitely the only way to fly."


	6. Chapter 6

"Buffy," Angel muttered into the wet grass, lifting his head slightly to stare up a slowly inclining knoll, capped with a crumbling stone fortress.

"She's there, in that decrepit old castle. Almost reminds me of that mansion you lived in in Sunnydale. Anyway, you're running out of time, Angel. You've got to get in there, explain the mission, fight the big bad, you know the drill."

"Right," he sighed, stumbling up out of the bleating herd, holding one hand over his bleeding wound, the other shielding his eyes from the freezing rain. "Right."

"I'll be in touch." Cordelia frowned as she melted into a glowing fog and disappeared from view.

"Right," Angel repeated, sliding across the slick, muddy ground as he trudged up the hillside.

From one hundred feet away, Angel could hear the voices of slayers grunting, gasping, fighting. The clanging sounds of axes against broadswords echoed through the overcast afternoon. Over their mingled voices, he could hear the breathing of something larger. And above that noise, the bleeping sounds of radio waves carried on the drizzly breeze, emitted from a satellite dish perched atop an old turret. Vaguely, Angel wondered where on earth a few hundred slayers had gotten funding for such a hefty establishment. They looked almost as fancy as the Los Angeles Branch of Wolfram and Hart.

Angel stumbled over a mislaid rock and slumped heavily against the grey slate wall of the castle. He glanced up, his head heavy, eyesight dizzy, and noticed a door hanging open. Inside the frame, standing in a glowing yellow light, stood a small red-headed woman dressed in denim and green cotton. She'd crossed her arms over her chest to attempt a defiant look, but her eyes and slightly pouting lips revealed a thought process far less sinister.

"Willow," Angel whimpered, holding himself up against the wall. Cold rivulets of rain water swirled over his shoulders and around his clavicle. A few drops mixed with coagulating blood, forming intertwining red patterns on his stomach and arms.

"I'd say you'd catch your death out there," Willow frowned, standing to one side. "But you could probably stand out there forever as long as the sun never came out."

"It's been a few years since I've been back here, but as I recall, it rarely does." Angel sighed nostalgically as he slid past her into a well-lit kitchen. It was an empty room, though well-used. The scent of potato and leek soup lingered in the humid air. A pot bubbled happily on a burner, emitting occasional belches of green steam.

"I have to see her," Angel grunted abruptly as he followed lamely behind Willow, deeper into the bowels of the kitchen.

"I know. But I don't know that you'll be well received."

"What do you mean?"

"We may be far from California, but we're not stupid. We have slayers all over the place now, eyes and ears everywhere."

"And…?"

"We know that you joined up with the enemy, Angel! Wolfram and Hart? The big bad evil law firm of doom? Duh!" Willow grouched, turning to face him, one hand on her cocked hip. Angel opened his mouth in reply, but Willow turned back toward the hallway and continued to lead him through the main floor of the castle.

"I…there were circumstances…"

"Look, Angel, I've always liked you. I mean, except when you were all evil and stuff. You've always treated Buffy well, except, when, uh, evil, and I respect that. So, I'll let her be the judge and I'll just do the…well, whatever she decides."

Finally, Willow came to a halt in front of an arched wooden door. Through it, Angel could hear the faint sounds of a training session in progress. In his head, against the ancient organ that had once been his heart, he could feel her blood beating through her body. Willow pushed open the door, then backed away, turning and walking right back down the hall.

The door creaked uneasily on its hinges as Angel fell inside a dungeon-like room. The wall facing the door was lined with mounted weaponry. There were swords and daggers, stakes made from various varieties of wood, axes from several different time periods and parts of the world, crossbows and longbows and hundreds of arrows.

"Oh good," Xander frowned, pulling a vinyl-padded helmet from his face and wiping sweat from his temple. "He's here."

"And you thought I was losing it," Buffy smirked, withdrawing an arm formerly extended in a punch.

"I didn't…" Xander began, but shrugged. "I'll just go."

Xander brushed heavily past Angel's side, jostling against his shoulder intentionally as he swept out into the hall and yanked the door shut behind him. Buffy Summers moved out from behind a punching bag, coming into full view of her former lover. Her hair was tied back away from her face, and in her eyes, Angel saw frustration, pain, and an honest, deep-seated adoration for the man standing in front of her. He watched as her muscles strained, as she maintained a firm stance on the cool slate floor, making a mental note not to aid his wounds. She'd been in a fight recently, evidenced by the gashes on her right shoulder, the scrape on her forearm, and the white tape wrapped around her left ankle. Around her neck, she wore a fine silver chain with two pendants hanging just above the curve of her bosom. One pendant was a simple sterling cross, and the other, a tarnished silver ring. Watching his gaze, she tucked the pendants into her sweaty white shirt.

"Why are you here?"

"Apocalypse," Angel sighed, trying not to sound ironic and pathetic at the same time.

"Isn't it nice that I can always count on you to bring me bad news?"

"At least I'm consistent."

"Look, I already know there's a Big Bad. You could have just sent me an email."

"There are special circumstances,"

"Ancient prophecies. Special magics. Big evil. Yada yada."

"The Powers came to me directly. I wouldn't have to come if…"

Angel wobbled uneasily, the world spinning around him. A rush of memories flooded his brain, weighing him down like a wave against the beach. He sank, suddenly, to the floor, his knees smacking hard against the stone. Pulling his hands away from his still wounded gut, he held them out to her, stained and trembling. Buffy's toes held even tighter to the ground, struggling to be brave.

"I don't believe you," she hissed under her breath, choking on her tongue.

"Wolfram and Hart…Buffy, I can explain."

"Explain? Explain why you went to lead up the most ancient evil on the Earth?!"

"Only the Los Angeles branch…"

"Why should I believe anything you say? How do I know this isn't some kind of trick to penetrate our operation?"

"Buffy, I broke with Wolfram and Hart. I left the office."

"And I'm supposed to take your word for it?" Buffy choked, feeling tears stinging her eyes.

"Listen to me!" Angel growled, reaching out with bloodied fingers and grabbing her hands in his. He held her fast, tight but gently. "My soul was restored, Buffy. Permanently. No more curse. No more Angelus. Whatever is coming, we're in this together."

In his hands, Buffy trembled. Gooseflesh rose up her arms, raising rows of small blond hairs. The tears that tingled around her eyes dripped down her cheeks, staining her eyelids a rosy red. Staring down at him, her lower lip shivered and her heart raced. Anger and desire ran like fire through her bloodstream, raging in her chest, burning her skin. Forcefully, Buffy yanked her hands from Angel's grasp, wiping his blood on the legs of her sweats.

"I can't, Angel. I can't…I can't trust you anymore." Her voice quivered with a thousand different emotions. The sudden need to run from the room surged through her brain. "You need to go."

"Buffy…please…"

"Go!" She pleaded, her voice rising suddenly, squeaking sharply.

"Buffy…"

"GET OUT!"

* * *

_Coming soon, Part 2 of TCAS, "Deeper and Deeper."  
_


	7. Chapter 7

_Part II: Deeper and Deeper_

* * *

_The first of the month:_

Wes moved quietly through the empty lobby, checking his watch as he pulled a key card from his wallet. It was 7:45, a full fifteen minutes before the offices of Wolfram and Hart buzzed with assistants and paralegals rolling into parking spaces under the building. Four thick olive folders sat on his desk, reflecting slats of sunlight through the partially open venetian blinds. Flicking his wrist slightly, Wesley grabbed a thin hardcover book from a small set of similar volumes and settled into a cozy leather desk chair. Placing his hand on the cover, he mumbled a few words under his breath and opened the book to reveal words forming instantly on the pages. From a drawer near his thigh, he pulled out a demon languages reference book, and set about translating the text, making notes on a yellow pad beneath his hand.

Fred Burkle walked briskly down the hallway toward the science lab on the third floor of Wolfram and Hart, her small heels clicking on the white ceramic floor. Beneath a freshly starched white lab coat, she wore a soft brown and red plaid skirt that twirled lightly around her knees and a short sleeved brown sweater, certainly a far more dressed up variety of lab rat than was typically common. Pushing her glasses up to the bridge of her nose, Fred withdrew a key card from her pocket to swipe through the reader when a bleached man slid up to her out of the shadows.

"Spike!" Fred squeaked, more surprised than frightened. Spike had been corporeal for nearly a week, but somehow he'd managed to seem as invisible as a ghost.

"Mornin'," Spike smirked, following Fred into the dark and quiet lab. Leaving the buzzing fluorescent lights off, Fred led Spike up into her office looking down over the equipment.

"What are you doing here?" Fred half-frowned as she sorted through her mail, trying to avoid the mischievous twinkle in the vampire's eyes.

"Up all night drinkin', didn't have nowhere to go. Sacked out on Captain Forehead's couch." Spike grinned. "Anyway, thought I'd ask if you wanted to join me for some breakfast. Coffee, muffins, blood with Wheatabix…"

"Uh, sure." Fred smiled with only slight hesitation. "What kind of muffins?"

Charles Gunn sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Papers and files were scattered on the desk and the floor, having fallen off of his chest as he rolled over during the night. Looking down the length of the sofa, he noticed that the slacks of his grey suit were wrinkled and creased, that his jacket had fallen from its hook over the door onto the floor, and that his tie was wrapped precariously around his throat. Blinking, Gunn glanced at the clock on the right side of the wall. The minute hand clicked silently from 7:49 to 7:50. It was unlikely that his assistant, Greg, had made it past security, let alone to his desk. Without a freshly pressed, presentable clothing option, Gunn reached down to sort the files on his floor.

"Boss?" Harmony called out, slipping into Angel's office. In one hand, she held out a novelty mug of warm, steaming blood, and under the other, she carried a few file folders and thin books. The office, though empty, was well-lit and tidy. Only the sofa at one of the room looked rumpled, as though it had been slept on the night before. Harmony frowned, placing the blood on the desk in case Angel had slept in. She sorted the files out beside his phone, picked up the one folder not addressed to him, and skipped back out of the room.

"Harmony," Wesley grunted, walking past her as she walked on precariously high heels back to her desk. Harmony turned quickly, her short pink skirt whirling around her waist.

"Oh! Good morning, Wesley!" She grinned a pink glittery lip gloss smile.

"Where's Angel? We have a meeting at 9:00 and I'd like him to look at this script I've been translating."

"Um. I don't think he's up yet. Anyway, this ended up in his outbox." Harmony frowned thoughtfully, holding out a folder with his name scrawled across it in black ink.

"Oh. Thanks." Wes turned back toward his office. "Let me know when he gets in!"

"Sure thing!"

Wes tossed the lightweight folder down on his desk, turning to grab a book from a second shelf on the wall near his door. From the folder, a small scrap of paper slid out and stuck firmly in the binding between the pages Wes had been translating. Curious, Wes picked up the slip, pulled off his glasses, and held it out in front of his face. Screwing up his mouth, he dropped the sheet and picked up his phone.

"Here it is," Wes grunted, setting the scrap in the middle of a rectangular plastic table at a Chinese restaurant in Venice Beach. Fred, Gunn, and Spike leaned over to read the cursive scrawl. Fred sat back first, munching thoughtfully on the end of an egg roll.

"Ooh, fried rice." Spike grinned, grabbing the bowl as a waiter brought their order to the table.

"So, what does it mean?" Gunn asked, taking a bite of sesame chicken from a large plate.

"Well, at face value, I believe it means that Angel has left." Wes replied. "After all, it does say exactly that."

"But left where? And why? And gone where?"

"And why doesn't he just leave us a real note?"

"Not a mind reader, but guessin' it's because he doesn't want anyone reading over his shoulder. Know what I mean?" Spike shoveled another forkful of rice into his mouth.

"Why are you hogging the rice? You don't even eat!" Fred pouted, taking the bowl from him and pushing a helping onto her plate.

"It's nice to have a little variety in one's diet."

"So, you think he might have left Wolfram and Hart…" Wes pondered.

"Well, it makes sense. Why else would he be so abrupt and secretive? I mean, he didn't tell anyone he was leaving. Did he?"

In unison, they shook their heads.

"Then I'd say that's exactly what happened. He left Wolfram and Hart and he didn't want anyone, but us of course, to know about it."

"So the next question is," Fred paused, chewing on a piece of cashew chicken. "Why did he leave?"

"I feel like I should say something witty," Connor smirked as he moved up to the table, standing between the shoulders of Wesley Wyndam-Price and Fred Burkle. Four pairs of eyes turned to gaze up at him, blankly for a moment and then with sudden realization. Fred's mouth fell open and a few grains of rice dropped from her lower lip onto the table. Wesley's chopsticks stopped in mid-air, holding out a morsel of scrambled egg. Gunn held a glass of water to his lips, sputtering as a swallow went down his wind pipe. Spike soured, confused by the new comer.

"Connor!" Fred squeaked suddenly, throwing back her chair and getting to her feet.

"Don't make any sudden movements, Fred!" Wes blurted, too late to stop Fred from standing up. "Or…um…"

"It's okay, really. I'm not here to hurt you guys."

"Right, and Angel's a human." Gunn growled.

"Seriously. We need to talk." Connor sighed, reaching for a wobbling plastic chair from a nearby table. "Who're you?"

"Spike," Spike replied bluntly, barely looking up as he stole Wesley's egg roll out from under his nose. "You?"

"Connor. Angel's…uh…son."

"Ah."

"So, what you're saying is, Angel left Wolfram and Hart to get back his permanent soul," Wes blinked as Connor finished.

"Right. He went to a demon dimension to complete a series of trials."

"Wanker. I always knew he was jealous of me."

"Shut up, Spike. Anyway, so he left Wolfram and Hart to get his soul, and save the world."

"Yes. And he needs you, all of you. He just doesn't know it yet."

"Where?" Fred asked, still awed.

"The slayer compound in the Scottish highlands. I've already got my passport."

"You're not coming. Angel would never forgive us if you got hurt." Gunn grumbled, pulling out a date book to check his calendar.

"I'm coming. We're all going. This is some huge thing, and hey, I'm the one getting PTB dreams, not you guys."

"I've never been to Scotland," Fred half-smiled, looking over at Spike.

"Sheep. Kilts. Rains a lot." Spike groaned, pulling a flask of whiskey from his coat pocket. "Decent booze though."


	8. Chapter 8

Angel stumbled out of the training room and into the open arms of Willow Rosenberg. She frowned as she wrapped an arm attentively around his shoulders, bearing some of the weight that he shoved against her as his legs wobbled. Angel blinked at her, his pupils dilated, irises glazed with saline. If the vampire would allow himself the freedom to shed tears, she was certain he would be doing so now. Willow had overheard the conversation, having no qualms about standing at the door, listening in. Now it would be time to play the supportive best friend role, encouraging Buffy to place trust in the man she'd loved for almost a decade. But first, Angel needed to get to the infirmary.

"She needs to trust me," Angel sighed, holding his hand against his slowly healing gut.

"She has her reasons to hold back," Willow frowned, helping him down the dark hallway.

"Wolfram and Hart gave me a chance to help my son, to repair the damage to his soul."

"Evil law firms? Never an option." She turned to face him, standing in the wide entrance of the dining hall. "Trust me on this one. I've done evil. With a soul."

Willow sighed thoughtfully as she led the broken vampire through the dining hall, allowing him to lean slightly against her shoulder. The eyes of young vampire slayers glanced up from bowls of Irish stew, staring with interest at the pair of old friends. Not a single girl rose from her seat at the old table to help support the ailing vampire nor to offer assistance to the spry red-headed witch. At the other end of the hall, Xander Harris leaned grumpily against the stony wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He glared uneasily at Angel while Willow pushed open the door to the infirmary.

"Don't," Willow grunted at Xander as Angel tripped through the open door. She moved in behind him and shut the door loudly.

The infirmary was quiet and empty, a sizable room with a curtained private area at one end and a large fireplace at the other. Angel sat down on the edge of a sheet-covered cot that wheezed as he relaxed. Coagulated blood caked around the rapidly healing wound that still ached in Angel's stomach, punctured by a broadsword. Though the trials had been all in his head, the injuries had been quite real.

"What do you know about the apocalypse?" Willow asked as she reached into a white-washed cupboard for gauze, bandages, and ointments.

"Only what I've learned from Cordelia," Angel sighed, thinking back to the dreams in which his connection to the Powers that Be had given him a vague idea of the road ahead.

"Cordelia Chase?" Willow blinked, pausing in mid-step. "Isn't she…didn't she…?"

"She died, yes, recently." He frowned, closing his eyes for a moment, imagining her face in his mind. "But she visited me in my subconscious, giving me instructions, motivations to get here, and get my intact soul."

Willow pulled up a chair and sat down in front of him, pouring a small amount of ointment onto a piece of gauze. Angel leaned back, smoothing the skin of his stomach. He took the square of lightweight material from her and pressed it gently against his wounded flesh. As they worked, Angel recalled the soothing dreams from Cordelia Chase, the presence of his mentally healing son, and the spell that took him into the trials deep within the bowels of the earth.

"What about you? Do you know anything about it? The apocalypse?" Angel asked as Willow secured the elastic bandage around his abdomen. She sat back and nodded, closing her eyes briefly. When she opened her eyes, they seemed darker, as though the weight of the situation bore down on her insides and darkened some part of her soul.

"We don't know much," she began, leaning back in the chair, which creaked uneasily beneath her small frame. "But we think that whatever it is has been causing a number of global disturbances reported by slayers positioned around the world."

"Global disturbances…" Angel frowned, searching for clarification.

"Two weeks ago, there was a report of fire balls the size of golf balls raining from the sky in a small rural town in India. We have an older slayer, a resident of Old Delhi, stationed in various positions in India. She heard about it from a group of American travelers, but the 'storm' was over by the time she reached the village."

"There's more…"

"Yeah, there's more. Just a few days ago, we received a report from a girl in Patagonia that a massive group of cobras overtook a village on the coast and killed four people before disappearing overnight."

"Cobras?"

"Yeah. In a huge horde. We think the two events are related somehow, a sign of the times, so to speak."

"What about hell mouth activity?"

"Faith is sitting on top of the Cleveland hell mouth and reporting normal activity, as far as I know. Of course, it's been a few hours since her last report."

"And you don't have anything else?" Angel frowned, getting to his feet to pace uncomfortably across the slate floor.

"Well," Willow mumbled. "There is one other thing."

Willow walked back out of the infirmary, leading Angel through another series of empty hallways, past rooms filled with young slayers training in various fighting styles. In one room, twelve young women around the age of fifteen fought each other with thick wooden staffs. In an adjoining room, a small handful of advanced girls sat on the floor in a circle, silently meditating. Together, they moved into a large library piled high with books on the occult, many of them original texts in original languages, some of them translations from demonic prophecy and oral legend.

Twenty some-odd books lie open on a table in the center of the room, gathered around a laptop computer humming quietly. Willow sat down in front of the machine, clicked on the keyboard, and brought up a simple word document filled with notations on a relic of the old world.

"It's called the Deeper Well, an ancient prison which holds the final resting places of the Old Ones, an ancient race of demons that ruled the world before man."

"I've heard of it. Vampires are a crossbreed of a blood-sucking Old One and humans."

"Right. We believe that the Deeper Well may give us a clue into what's going on with these strange occurrences."

"Why the well?"

"Well," Willow reached around on the table and pulled out a book written in a series of runic glyphs. "This is an account of the release of an Old One. It's written in the pre-Celtic runes of the peoples of the highlands."

"Stonehenge builders." Angel nodded, glancing at the binding of the text also decorated in runes.

"Right. According to the text, the architects of Stonehenge built the circle to contain the Old One in a sarcophagus within the well. The circle trapped the demon and bound it to the sarcophagus for a thousand years. Before they bound it, the Old One burned crops and rained frogs from the clouds."

"So, the snakes and the fire…"

"Perhaps that same demon, or another one related to it."

Angel got to his feet, pushing the book away. Rubbing the back of his neck nervously, he stalked across the library floor and back to the archway around an old lacquered door. His shoulders flexed, stretching the intricate griffin tattooed over his scapula. Briefly, he pressed his forehead against the cool stone wall, letting thoughts drift through his troubled mind. Connor drifted into view, his safety and comfort a constant connection to the human world. Buffy Summers rose up over the image of his son, her love washing over him like summer showers. Cordelia's voice murmured behind his ears, motivation, PTB mojo, a chance to save the world and be with the woman he loved.

"I need to be by her side." He said, turning back to Willow. "I need to go to the well."


	9. Chapter 9

"I think it's good for her," Dawn half-smiled, pulling a short daisy from the grass.

"You don't know Angel like I know Angel," Xander grumbled, leaning his elbows on his knees. "He's a traitor, a killer."

"He loves Buffy more than life. It's so pure!" Dawn squeaked. Between her fingers, she fastened a final flower into a daisy chain and placed it on her head. "I'd be lucky to find half that passion and love in my life."

"Well, at least I'll never go evil on you," Xander smirked, taking her hand and pressing it gently against his lips. "I'm just lucky you're the only Summers' girl satisfied with a regular guy."

"You're hardly a regular guy." Dawn chuckled, blushing a warm pink.

"She's right. You're a basement-dwelling, one-eyed watcher man." Spike grimaced, strutting up the dirt path that rose up over the knoll toward the castle. Behind the peroxide blond vampire came a scruffy, unkempt demon hunter, a green-skinned empathic lounge singer, a thin, delicate, awkward physicist, a dapper dressed muscular fighter, and a bright, bushy-tailed young man with a brooding eye.

"Spike?" Dawn squeaked, bouncing to her feet and wrapping her arms tightly around Spike's neck. He chuckled in an almost carefree way, giving the young woman a quick spin in the fading pink light that tinged the horizon.

"Xander and the little bit," he smirked, putting her down and readjusting his coat. "Always knew you crazy kids would get together."

"Together?" Xander blurted, getting nervously to his feet. "We're not…uh…"

"I won't tell the slayer." Spike replied before they could protest.

"You followed Angel here?" Xander asked over his shoulder as he led them up the hill toward the fortress.

"Yup. Cryptic note and a weird second-hand message from the Powers that Be." Fred answered him happily, skipping up the path ahead of the gang, smiling brightly at Spike as she went. "It's typical for us. But we almost never get to travel."

"Except to demon dimensions," Wes corrected her with a nostalgic frown.

"Well, I really prefer plane travel to portal travel."

"Me too," Gunn grunted from the back.

"I dunno. Portal travel has its advantages." Connor mused, adjusting a backpack over his shoulder. "Just think of all that awkward puberty I missed in Los Angeles."

"So, this castle in the midst of the Scottish highlands," Wes gestured to the castle as they stepped up on the flat meadow it occupied. "How did you come to own it?"

"Well, when the Watcher's Council blew up, we kind of swiped their accounts. After all, Giles was really the only working watcher left in the world. And, you know, we had the only one thousand vampire slayers."

"And the library? All of those texts blown to smithereens?"

"The most valuable texts were recovered from a safe underneath the council's building."

"Now that we've left Wolfram and Hart, Wes is dying to see a collection of books to rival what he had." Charles smirked.

"Left Wolfram and Hart?" Giles asked incredulously a few minutes later, taking off his glasses and wiping them on the tail of his shirt. Gunn nodded as Wesley pulled a book from a shelf near the floor.

"We just said sayonara and skedaddled right outta there," Fred grinned, perching in front of Willow's computer. "No more evil law firm."

"This is an Egyptian translation of the first Watcher diaries!" Wesley gasped, leaning heavily against the wall. "Your library…Giles, it's…"

"Yes…quite."

"Fred!" Willow beamed, popping up at the library door.

"Willow!" Fred squealed with equal fervor. The girls met in the middle of the room in a tight embrace. Willow blushed just slightly, the apples of her cheeks burning a gentle pink.

"It's been too long. Far too long." Willow sighed nostalgically, touching Fred's chin, tilting her face to catch the soft glow of a dying fire across the room.

"We should totally have a research slumber party!" Fred grinned innocently. "Marshmallows and graham crackers and dusty ol' books. It'll be swell."

"Well, there is a lot of work to do on this new Drogyn thing."

"Drogyn thing?" Wes asked, looking up from the books he'd been pawing. "What about Drogyn?"

"We think he may be connected to the Deeper Well, the…" Giles answered him.

"…the tomb of the Old Ones, the ancient demon race." Wes finished, clicking away at Willow's open laptop until he dug up an internet document hidden within the old Watcher database. "I wrote a paper about Drogyn the Battlebrand when I was at university. Top marks."

"Ah. Yes…" Giles answered with a frown. Why did they all have to throw about his lack of computer skills? "On the internet."

"Well, it was published in the annual Watcher newsletter, but I doubt they were recovered when the council…erm…fell apart." Wes clicked on the mouse and brought up a file, the entire fifty page text of his research paper on Drogyn, guardian of the Deeper Well. "He hasn't always been a guardian though. He discovered the entrance to the well while hunting a demonic beast in the forest. The former guardian of the well offered him the drink of everlasting life and eternal youth, and he took it. He has watched the ins and outs of the well ever since, bound by his position to always speak the truth."

"Now there's a guy who knows how to party," Spike frowned, leaning back against a wall, his eyes slightly lifted in Fred's direction.

"I would assume that with top marks you could tell us the location of the Deeper Well…" Giles muttered, opening a book on the table.

"It's in the Cotswolds, but no one knows quite where." Wes answered bluntly.

"Well, I suggest we head out, kick ourselves a bit of demon ass, and get to the bottom of this…problem." Spike grinned, perking up.

As Giles and Wesley sat in the library sorting out a route into the Cotswolds, Willow led the rest of the newly arrived investigative team further into the castle, pointing out various rooms and courtyards that weaved like a maze.

"And this is one of our training rooms. The slayers usually come in here to do meditative workouts." Willow pushed open the door a half-inch to peek inside. Connor leaned over her shoulder to get a look at ten young women in various yoga positions on the floor. "Just like your father, aren't you Connor? Into slayers,"

"Yeah…wait…what?" Connor blinked, turning a pale shade of red.

"Over here is one of several armories in various areas of the castle." Willow pointed to another door. Gunn shoved through the group, pushed open the door with his shoulder, and slid inside. "My kinda room!"

"In here, we have a recreation area," Willow smiled, passing an open hall filled with girls watching music television on cable. Lorne left the rest of the group and lounged with a few lithe girls dancing in front of the T.V.

"And my dad?" Connor asked apprehensively. "He's around here somewhere, right?"

Angel stood out on a second floor terrace, stretched above the floral knoll that dipped down into the small village at the bottom of the hill. Shirtless, but with a few bandages covering the healing wound in his stomach, he stretched into a tai chi pose, one hand stretched out in front of his body and the other stiff and still at his hip. Despite having no breath, he went through the motion of drawing in air, pushing his arms through the atmosphere, and exhaling the breath again. Skin prickled on the back of his neck and he held still for a minute, frozen in a difficult pose.

"Your team is here," Buffy said behind him, her voice blunt but soft.

"I saw them walk up the hill." He replied as he came to stand with his feet together.

"It looks like you're staying, whether I want you to or not."

"Buffy," Angel sighed, turning to face her. A gust of wind came up from the grass and flew through her long blond hair, pulling streaks of gold around her face. "Sometimes we make difficult choices to protect the people we love most."

"So you chose to be part of the problem."

"I chose to protect my son, Buffy."

"Why do all of your choices involve leaving the people you claim to love?" Her voice trembled, and before he could answer, she turned and walked back down the stairs.


	10. Chapter 10

"It's funny, but in a castle filled with about three hundred teenage girls, I never had trouble finding an empty space to think in until you showed up." Buffy sighed, pulling a door shut behind her with an abrupt slam.

"Sorry love," Spike half-frowned from a low slung sofa. "Figured I'd pay you a visit, alone."

"I can't deal with you right now, Spike."

Still, Buffy slumped down on the couch beside him, her arms crossing instantly over her chest, head resting back against the cushions. Spike pressed a hand gently against her knee. Buffy stared at the gesture for a long time before she finally pushed it away.

"It was a minute in time and now it's over." She sighed. Spike shrugged beside her.

"I know, love. I exploded in a ball of fire, saved the world, brooded over you a bit, and then found another sweet, innocent girl to…"

"Obsess over." Buffy interrupted with a hint of mocking tenderness.

"Protect from the big bad." Spike corrected her smugly.

"Anyway, I have other stuff on my mind."

"Broody Man. Got himself a permanent soul. Always knew he was jealous."

"Never let anyone accuse you of acting your age, Spike." Buffy scowled, getting to her feet.

"Don't know what you ever saw in that limp wanker, but he does love you, Slayer. More than I ever could." Buffy stopped at the door and turned to face the peroxide blond vampire at the other end of the room. She blinked, opened the door, and closed it softly, slowly.

"So, the Cotswolds," Willow mused. She picked up a computer-printed map and a set of handwritten directions from a desk in the middle of the castle library. Buffy crouched next to her, throwing a couple of last minute weapons into a heavyweight shoulder bag.

"Do you think we'll need all of that on a fact-finding mission?" Angel asked, his brow furrowed with concern. Spike smirked next to him, looking at the collection of wooden stakes, arrows for a crossbow, and a small throwing axe.

"It helps to be prepared. We don't know anything about this place."

"Or how to get there, apparently. Giles, these directions conflict with the map."

"Well, there are four sets of directions in six separate demonic languages." Wes interjected as Giles removed and cleaned his glasses. "We narrowed it down to the two most likely sources."

"We're looking for a tree?" Angel asked, taking the directions from Willow. "No markings, no precise location, just a tree…"

"Yes…" Giles sighed.

"A tree in the Cotswolds. You have _been_ to the Cotswolds, haven't you?" Spike frowned, tearing the sheet from Angel's hands. "Picture Sherwood Forest on overdrive. With fog machines."

"Sherwood Forest on overdrive with fog machines on the night of a new moon. Glad I came heavily armed." Buffy grumbled as she pulled an axe from her bag and held it firmly near her hip, ready to strike.

"So tell me what's going on with you and Angel," Willow smiled, poking Buffy in the ribs suggestively.

"Nothing. It's a routine apocalypse. In, out, and on with our lives."

"It's never a routine with you and Angel. You are the antithesis of routine."

"Did you just use the word 'antithesis' while walking through a forest in the middle of the night?"

"I'm a geek. It's what I do." Willow paused, wrinkling her nose. "Smooth change of subject by the way."

"It's a Slayer power."

"Right. So, Angel, back in your life, permanent soul, available for some hot makeup sex."

"I never thought a lesbian would think about sex so much."

"Well, they don't tell you in the man…quit that!"

"This look like something to you?" Spike motioned to an elderly tree curling up from the earth, spreading limbs toward the empty night sky. Though it was late spring, the branches were bare, and the long grass that swayed in the light breeze stopped growing three feet around its base.

"What?" Angel looked up from the spot he'd occupied for several minutes. "Oh, right."

"It's nothing good. Witch digging in for the dirt. Slayer avoiding the subject."

"You were listening. Why were you listening?"

"Habit?" Spike shrugged and walked closer to the tree. "Awfully quiet, you know? You'd think, I dunno, security alarm, weird demon bodyguards, somethin'."

"Yeah. Uh, Buffy?"

Buffy and Angel stood anxiously in front of the aging tree, staring at a hole in the trunk that gaped open, a toothless mouth. The withered bark added to the ancient face of the well, a creature extending into the depths of the earth.

"I guess I expected some kind of greeting party," Buffy frowned, pressing her hand lightly against the trunk, dipping her head to wiggle into the entrance.

"Small favors," Willow added, following the slayer into the darkness.

The hole in the trunk dropped down immediately into a steeply descending staircase. The walls closed in on either side, confining the space to barely enough room for a single file drop into the bowels of the Cotswolds. The darkness was impenetrable, suffocating. Yet, at the end of the tunnel, a shimmer of grayish light rose up like a brightening morning sky. Buffy touched down on the wooden floor of a bridge stretched for five hundred feet across a great chasm. Willow walked right up to the edge, wrapped her hands around the banister, and leaned over the side. Spike leaned back against the sloping dirt wall that arched over the well. Angel moved behind Buffy, but almost instantly lifted his nose skyward to catch a stale scent on the air.

"Do you smell that?"

"Cold blood," Spike muttered with disgust.

"Ugh." Buffy soured.

"You've dated two vampires and killed hundreds. Suck it up, Slayer."

"It's over here."

Blood dripped slowly over the edge of the bridge, pooling on the lid of an iridescent stone sarcophagus about thirty feet below them. Buffy stooped beside the body of a young-looking man with matted brown hair and a slightly scarred face. The silver hilt of a dagger protruded from his back, darkening the brown linen shirt he wore. The fingers of his right hand had been dipped in the wide pool of rusty blood that oozed from his body. His eyes were closed, his heart silent.

"So ends Drogyn, the battlebrand." Angel frowned, crouching down beside Buffy to touch his cold and lifeless skin. He'd been there for several hours, if not several days. The blood on the floor had begun to dry around the edges. In the midst of the sticky mess, just beneath the limp hand of the well's guardian, a word had been drawn.

"Shesha."


	11. Chapter 11

"Spell it again?" Wesley asked as he flipped through the stiff, dusty pages of an old demonic volume.

"S-h-e-s-h-a. Shesha. For the seventh time. Look, I don't know what this thing is, but to kill an immortal guardian guy…"

"Endless youth, not necessarily immortal. This blade is," Giles frowned, lifting the weapon into the warm bask of a table lamp. "Well, it's nothing particularly special."

"It's silver. Silver kills the baddies. Look at, um, werewolves! And hey, that weird demon that Ethan Rayne turned you into a few years ago? Silver killed um…well you."

"Yes, but there's nothing written anywhere in our materials that suggests the guardian of the Deeper Well could be killed by something as simple as a silver blade. And it isn't covered in runes or demonic languages. It's just a silver dagger. Plain, unadorned. One might almost say…dull."

"And this…word or name or species of thing that was written in the blood around him-we can only assume that it was written by him or someone who wanted us to know who had killed him." Wes added thoughtfully. "If only we knew what it referred to."

"Well, I believe it may be a name…look at this here,"

Angel pressed his hand tenderly against Buffy's shoulder as she sat curled up in a library chair. She lifted her eyes first, and then inclined her head toward him. His fingers felt heavy on her arm, waiting for response. The slayer untangled herself from the uncomfortable seat and followed him from the room. Only Willow watched them depart, the door opening with a creak, closing with a slight woosh of displaced air.

Outside of the library, Buffy pulled ahead of Angel, leading him down a dark hall, up a short flight of stairs, and into a well-lit sitting room off the side of her bedroom. The small room was lined with warm ivory furniture, and Buffy settled on the far end of a creaking sofa. Angel eased down at the other end, leaving them a two foot cushion of distance.

"I know it's been a long time," Angel began, lowering his eyes toward hands folded in his lap. "The last time I saw you, well, Sunnydale was still on the map. Things have changed since then. Maybe too many things,"

"I…"

"Don't. Just hear me out first. When Connor was born-Buffy, I didn't think I could ever find happiness without you in my life. Sure, I had my work, my friends, but there was a void in my heart. And then, there was this child, my child. He was a tiny, perfect person, someone I could pour my heart into.

"And then I lost him. It's like the curse spread way beyond physical love, a perfect moment of pure joy, to every moment of anything close to happiness. When Connor made it back to me, hate and a demon dimension had changed my beautiful child into a monster of vengeance. He couldn't handle the heartache, the pain, and he couldn't see me as his father. After everything that happened to us last year, I'm surprised he made it out alive.

"Wolfram and Hart came to us when we were weakened, physically, mentally. It isn't a good excuse. Hell, it isn't an excuse at all. But Buffy, when they promised to give my son a life, a family he could count on, a bit of normalcy that I could never offer him. I thought maybe we could change Wolfram and Hart, but mostly, I wanted Connor to be safe."

Buffy moved across the sofa as he spoke, his eyes cast toward his empty hands, tears welling in his eyes. Her lower lip trembled against the stiff upper, and with tears clinging to her cheeks, she pressed a hand into his, filling his palm. Angel clutched her fingers in his, lifting his head to catch her warm green gaze in his eyes.

"Buffy," he breathed.

"I'm trying to do the right thing, here. Trying to stay focused." Buffy murmured, resettling on the cushion that had separated them, staring at her hand within his.

"I know. And you should,"

"Connor will be safe with us, here."

"I know."

"Would you uh," Buffy paused, wiping a glaze of fresh tears from her eyes. She got to her feet, pulling his hand along with her. "Would you spar with me for awhile?"

Like dancers, they moved together on the grass, beneath the glowing crescent moon. Stars twinkled in constellations above their heads, and the sliver of moon cast a long shadow around their interlocking forms. Buffy threw a firm punch, her muscled arm rippling as she threw her full strength against her partner. Angel grinned mischievously, the first smile that had crossed his face in weeks. He blocked the hit with a raised forearm and threw one of his own. Buffy smirked, spun on her heel, and dodged the blow.

Under the shadow of an archway, Spike stood watching them, his arms crossed over his chest. The tails of his long leather coat fluttered in a cold breeze. From the corner of his mouth, a toothpick wobbled. Standing on the outside, looking in, they looked strangely happy.

"Spike?"

"Fred," Spike smiled, sliding an arm around the small waist of the young woman who peeked out of the door beside him.

"Are you coming in?"

"In a minute love," he grinned, removing the toothpick from his mouth. "In a minute."

-

"C'mon Lorne, we know you can! I'm sure we all have bright futures!" Renee giggled, flopping onto a patched up bean bag chair.

"Well, alright, but no power ballads. Or Britney Spears!" Lorne muttered, secretly pleased to have found such a colorful bunch of young women to hang with while the rest of his bosom pals did the research.

"Oooh, I love this one!" Kyra beamed, turning up the radio. An old Nikka Costa song bounced over the airwaves, and the young thirteen year old slayer bounced to her feet, holding a hairbrush like a microphone. "Everybody got their something!"

Lorne soured, but not to the bouncy pop beat. His skin turned a mushy canned pea shade of green, and his spiked coif seemed to droop toward his ears. Swallowing the urge to vomit, Lorne tore from the overstuffed purple couch and out of the room, barely making it to the window at the end of the hall before he purged his supper on the lazy spring grass two stories below.

"Lorne?" Renee and Kyra squeaked, following him down the hall. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"C'mon, my singing is totally not that bad…"

"But Xander's cooking? Ew."

"Combination," Lorne groaned, holding his stomach and sputtering. "Xander's cooking, if you can call it that, and a major case of the weirdness."

"Told you, Kyra. It's your singing. Don't quit your day job."

"Don't quit your…" Lorne mimicked. "I have to find Angel."


	12. Chapter 12

"Willow!" Lorne yelped, running headlong into Willow in the midst of a dark hallway. Willow smiled in a sleepy sort of way, her eyes half open and noticeably bloodshot, even in the dark. She clutched a large copy of _Chronicles_ to her chest like a comforting teddy bear.

"Hi Lorne, headin' off to bed?"

"I…no. I was looking for the broody boss man,"

"Oh. I think he's with…erm…"

"With the Slayer? Yeah, I thought he might be. Hate to disturb him, but I don't think it can wait. He likes to hear about bad vibe-age as it happens."

"Bad…oh. Can I help?"

"More of an Angel thing, Red, but thanks," Lorne shifted nervously from one foot to the other, his brow dotted with beads of sweat.

"Wes tells me you're an empathic demon. You can read the futures of those that sing for you. Do you have information about Shesha?" Willow straightened, attempting to look more important and less like a sidekick Scooby.

"I'm not really sure. You mention Wes…have you seen Wes?"

"Library." Willow shrugged, already falling asleep on her feet despite the jolt of possible news.

"Ah. Dusty book land. My favorite place." Lorne frowned and continued down the hall.

Lorne melted wearily into a chair in the dimly lit library, alongside a table scattered with ancient texts, parchment lined with runes and glyphs, and several yellow notepads covered in chicken scratch notes. Wesley Wyndam-Price and Rupert Giles sat engulfed in notes, pouring over the translations of several human and demon languages. Taking a sip of cooling tea, Giles lifted his eyes just enough to glimpse the green tinted demon washed out by the flickering table lamps. He cleared his throat, yet still croaked when speaking.

"Lorne,"

"Pertinent news, thought you should know, big guy." Lorne half smiled. The last of his normal color returned to his cheeks and the wave of nausea dissipated.

"I'm listening," Wes frowned, looking up briefly from his notes.

"Read a few of the slayer-ettes a little while ago. Through a wave of nausea, I got a pretty strange vibe."

"Not again,"

"Oh no, not as bad as that Cordy vibe thing. It was just…well…it seemed like the Slayer-ettes wouldn't be here for this Shesha thing. Whatever's coming, these girls won't face it."

"Wait…what?" Giles blinked, removing his glasses and rubbing them with his handkerchief.

"No futures for the Slayer-ettes. At least, not here."

"Rupert, I think we've waited long enough. We have to call the team together. We need to make some kind of plan."

"Yes…hmm."

Buffy threw her legs out over the side of the bed, her feet sliding into a pair of cozy slippers. Stretching her arms wide, she yawned loudly and sank down into the mattress with a guttural groan. A knock echoed against the door and it popped open, Angel's head peeking around the door.

"Meeting at the breakfast table in ten minutes," he yawned, rubbing the back of his skull with one hand. Sleep still clung to his eyes and his hair stuck out in odd directions.

"I'll walk down with you." Buffy answered, grabbing the tee shirt she'd worn the day before from the back of a chair.

Dawn sat up on her elbows as Xander rolled out of bed beside her, pulling on a shirt and pulling his eye patch down over his forehead.

"It's seven in the morning," she groaned, still half-asleep. Strands of brown hair fell around her face and neck, sweeping the bed sheets.

"Duty calls. You know how it is." Xander answered gruffly, leaning back to kiss her cheek.

"Just glad I didn't have to spend all night doing the research thing."

"Me too," Xander winked with his good eye.

"Alright, we have fresh tea, fresh coffee, fresh pig's blood, fifteen kinds of cereal, and, because I've been up since five, about a thousand chocolate chip peanut butter pancakes." Willow yawned, helping herself to a short stack of pancakes and a cup of coffee. Beside her, Giles and Wesley blinked at the array of foods on top of the stove and stretched across the countertop. Giles poured a few cups of English Breakfast, took one, and wandered toward the breakfast table to continue studying his notes.

"Got any Wheatabix?" Spike frowned, looking at a mug of pig's blood waiting for him on the counter.

"Ugh," Willow soured, shoveling another forkful of pancakes into her mouth.

"I like the consistency. Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I don't like variety."

"So try some pancakes for your variety."

"I think he just like grossing us out," Fred giggled from the door, taking a bee line route to the steaming pancakes on top of the stove. "Ooh, peanut butter chocolate chip? My favorite!"

"Better than tacos?" Gunn joked from the breakfast table, stirring his Cocoa Pebbles with disinterest.

"Well, nothing is better than tacos, Charles."

By half past seven, the team had gathered at the breakfast table, stuffing all of the seats and more pulled in from the expansive adjoining dining room. Buffy slouched against the back of a wide, armed chair. Angel sat beside her, his pinky finger lightly grazing the edge of her hand. Xander and Willow picked at their breakfasts in the next two seats, sharing bites of pancake and spoonfuls of six types of cereal in one bowl. Connor sat bolt upright in a seat beside his father, happy to be included in the discussion. Beside him, Charles Gunn scooped chocolate flavored cereal into his mouth, sating a lazy hunger. Lorne yawned at one end of the table, facing Spike at the other end sucking blood through a straw. Fred sat catty-corner to the vampire, wide-awake and ready for research mode. Giles and Wesley downed cups of tea and peered at the ensemble with blood-shot eyes.

"Here's what we have," Wes grunted. "Shesha is also known as Endless Shesha, leader or king of the race of Old Ones called the Naga. The demons' natural form is a gigantic cobra, and it is still worshipped as a protector of the Hindu god Krishna. However, before Krishna, the Naga race was all powerful, and it is believed that they had a role in the creation of the human dimension, as well as several demon dimensions."

"We've surmised that Shesha was captured in its non-corporeal essence in a sacred urn that occupied a space in the Deeper Well. Something or someone broke into the Well, killed the demonic bodyguards of Drogyn as well as Drogyn himself, and stole the urn. It or they then broke the urn with a series of spells, releasing the essence of Shesha upon the world." Giles frowned, gulping down another cup of tea.

"Known powers?" Angel asked, setting his mug of blood heavily on the table.

"From what is described in ancient Hindi texts, Shesha requires a corporeal form to invoke any real damage. It takes several weeks, maybe even several months, to perform the rituals necessary to place Shesha in a human host, raised as an offering to the Shesha by fundamentalists. Because of the global problems we've already seen, Rupert and I believe that Shesha has already found a host. As it gains strength, Shesha is able to shape-shift into other living creatures, including a swarm of cobras like the one witnessed in Argentina."

"The demon can also recreate biblical plagues on a localized scale." Giles sighed. "The rain of fire we witnessed a few weeks ago was likely the result of Shesha. We can expect to see other plagues as well-rivers of blood, toads, locusts, diseases, famine… We've determined that these attacks increase Shesha's power and allow it to materialize into its ultimate corporeal form, an epic snake-like creature."

"The real question," Buffy growled, sitting up in her chair, "Is how do we kill it?"

"We don't know yet." Wesley frowned, sitting back. His shoulders drooped hopelessly.

"Wesley and I have a lead in the deserts of Algeria, at the natural arches of the Tassili n'Ajjer. We believe that the original sorcerers that created the first Slayer may have faced the Naga."

"So I'll head down to this Origin place and dig up this info," Buffy volunteered, pushing back her chair.

"No." Giles replied gruffly. "Whatever the information is, it will need to be translated, possibly on location. We need you to stay here, Buffy, and train for whatever is coming. We also need to keep a sharp eye on the girls. We believe they may be in danger."

"In danger?" Xander squeaked through a mouthful of pancakes. "Of what?"

"Lorne read them last night, gave him the wiggins." Willow nodded.

"Yes. Lorne read Renee and Kyra. We believe that they may not be involved in the fight with Shesha, but we don't know why. Their protection is of the utmost importance."

"So I'm on babysitting duty?" Buffy balked.


	13. Chapter 13

"You know, I almost miss the perks of working at Wolfram and Hart. An entire research team at my disposal, a mountain of books piled into a compendium, and, best of all, a private jet. No one misses economy." Wesley frowned, trying to immerse himself in research while a baby screamed violently two rows ahead.

"Unfortunately the Council's budget didn't extend to a private jet."

"Very unfortunate,"

"_Flight crew, please prepare for landing_."

"Finally! No more screaming children."

"Yes. I believe we are now faced with spitting, flea-ridden camels."

"If it weren't an apocalypse…"

Wesley and Giles stepped off the plane and into the baking early morning heat of Algiers, the capital city of Algeria. Giles wiped beads of sweat from his brow and stalked across the sandy tarmac. Wesley followed him, slinging a bag of books over his shoulder. The city was already buzzing at seven in the morning, alive with an abundance of merchants peddling souvenirs, exotic fruits, fabrics, and camel rides into the roasting Sahara desert.

"Would you like to do the honors, or shall I?" Wesley grimaced, glancing from the camel wrangler to Giles, and back again.

"My Arabic is not that strong," Giles muttered, re-folding his handkerchief and forcing it into the pocket of his tweed jacket.

"But I believe your haggling is much better than mine,"

"Are you saying I'm aggressive?"

"Certainly not. You're just more…"

"Forget it. I'll get the camels. You get the desert wear. And we won't breathe a word of our…attire to Buffy."

Two dirt-streaked hours later, Giles and Wesley were dressed from head to toe in flowing white gauze, complete with headscarves and small braided turbans. Giles tried without success to wipe smudges of dust and grime from his glasses with a scratchy square of material. The dirt moved across the glass lens but wouldn't rub away. Between his legs, the camel, Achmed, grunted and brayed.

"There's never a good Hellmouth when you need one," Giles groaned, striking the camel's backside with a horsehair switch. The animal took off slowly, ambling across the market street.

"Yes. I'd take an entire swarm of vampires over this…freakshow." Wesley added, adjusting his seat on the carpet thrown haphazardly over the camel's hump.

The hot sun of the Sahara beat down upon their shoulders as Wes and Giles wobbled into the desert on camelback. As night fell over the expansive sands, the watchers stopped to sleep. A cool breeze swept gently through the dunes, rustling the gauze clothing that covered the travelers. Wesley pulled a few books from a saddle pack and set them gently on his canvas sleeping bag.

"Which ones did you bring?" Giles asked, throwing a match onto a pile of broken twigs and kindling.

"_The Watcher Chronicles_, a second hand copy of _Ancient Demonic Languages of the Southern Hemisphere_, and, hm, oh yes, a book about edible creatures of the Sahara."

"I brought six tins of sausages, some Hobnob biscuits, some sharp cheddar, and a package of digestives."

"Ah good. I didn't really bring anything that could kill a sand viper. A Byzantine throwing axe, maybe, if we were in a pinch."

The night passed quietly, giving the desert a dreamy like quality with delicately moving sands and the quiet chirps of small birds and rodents. In the morning, the sun rose over the earth at five in the morning, baking the sand by six. Mounting their furry, grouchy steeds, Wes and Giles rode on into the sea of tidal sand. The braided tails of their small turbans swirled at their necks as they dipped down into the valley of a high dune.

"Did you feel that?" Wesley called out as a gust of squealing wind sailed out over the plain.

"What?"

"The wind! Did you…hear…" Wesley yelled again over an even louder whistle of rushing air. Realizing he was yelling to be heard, he turned around in his saddle, looking over his shoulder. "Ever been in a sandstorm before?"

"A…a what?" Giles blinked, twisting around to follow Wesley's gaze.

Beyond their eyes, a few miles behind them, a great wall of cloudy dust stretched out across the horizon. The storm billowed outward as it expanded across the desert, consuming particles of dust and sand. A high wind flew from it and around it, pulling at the earth and rattling the camels. Wesley held tightly to the reigns as his dromedary rushed forward, picking up speed. Behind him, Achmed bounded over the earth, away from the impending storm.

"We're almost there! At this rate, we'll get there by 2:00!" Giles tapped his watch before spitting out a mouthful of sand.

Giles stumbled off Achmed's hump as the storm overtook them at the arches of Tassili n'Ajjer. A roaring wave of sand crashed over the mountains, spreading collapsed dunes over the rocks and taking off further across the dunes on the other side. Wesley held his turban against his skull as the dust pulled and prodded him.

"It isn't as bad as I thought it would be!" Giles yelled, tucking his glasses into a pocket in his baggy pants.

"Let's get on to the Origin!" Wesley replied hoarsely, tying up his camel to a bending palm.

Slinging a leather backpack over his shoulder, Giles took off toward the arches dotting the landscape. Following him, Wesley brought the saddlebag of books, shoved his hand against his brow as a visor, and bent his head away from the wind. The sands shifted and blew as the storm continued overhead, blotting out the sun and reducing visibility. Giles persevered, holding a compass out in front of him and stumbling awkwardly across the earth. The arches, hidden in the swirling dust, rose up out of nothing as the watchers approached. Wesley stumbled painfully over a bit of rock jabbing from the ground. Nearly an hour after leaving the camels at the oasis on the edge of the park, Giles and Wesley threw themselves into the warm sheltered cave of the Corridor Arch, the Origin of the Slayer.

"Well, that was bracing," Wesley chimed with a kind of irritated glee. He sat slowly on an eroded rock at the edge of the corridor, the wind at his back.

"This is it, the Origin of the Slayer." Giles gasped in awe, staring up at the walls that surrounded the corridor. Paintings had been fleshed out in black, red, and white paints. A woman, her hair scraggly and dreaded crouched with a pointed spear in her hand. Races of demons covered the walls, some with red skin and massive curling horns, others with greenish-yellow flesh and unusual humanoid shapes. A representation of a great hooded snake without a body lay beneath the triumphant representation of the first slayer.

"According to the first chronicles, the secrets of the Ancient Ones are written on clay tablets. Giles, look for hidden compartments in the walls! I'll check over here in the floor!"

Giles dropped his pack and pulled from it a small iron chisel, a hammer, and a hand-held crowbar. Pressing a hand against the walls, he smoothed his hand over the rock face, tapping at random for hollow sections. On his hands and knees, Wesley tapped at the hard floor with his knuckles, listening for sections of empty earth.

"Here!" Giles yelped suddenly, digging his chisel into a section of rock emblazoned with a written glyph, the only piece of writing in the entire arch. Tapping carefully at the rock so as not to destroy the site itself, Giles released the cover of a small square hole over a large dugout space. Inside, dusted with particles of rock, sat a long carved wooden box decorated with more images of the first slayer and the demons she fought. On the palm wood latch, the same glyph on the rock was carved into the wood.

"It means demon-woman," Wesley surmised, closing the _Chronicles_ and replacing it in his saddle bag. "It's the first written description of the slayer, part demon, part woman."

In the center of the cave, seated on the floor, Giles and Wesley sat on either side of the box. Wesley undid the latch which held on a sliding cover. Pulling it back and placing it on the floor, they stared at a collection of eight red clay tablets inscribed with tiny glyphs.

"Do you know the language?" Giles frowned, staring at the style of straight lines and circles.

"No. I don't think so. It almost looks like…but it wouldn't make any sense…"

"Looks like what?"

"Well, this circle here, paired with this bending line. It almost looks like Brahmi."

"Fifth century BC India Brahmi?" Giles guffawed, wiping his glasses.

"But why would Brahmi be used to catalogue a beast in Africa?"

"This creature may have been the reason the slayer was originally created. She would have been dispatched to India to defeat it."

"We'll have to bring it back to the library. I don't have any books on ancient human languages here."

The silence of Algiers was deafening as Giles and Wesley rode back into the city after four days in the unforgiving desert. Wesley dismounted and grabbed the reins of his camel, but the beast would not move further into the city. Giles hopped down into the dusty street as well, clutching the canvas bag containing their box of tablets.

"This can't be good," Wesley frowned nervously, dropping the reins of his animal.

"Let's just get to the plane." Giles murmured, unloading their belongings.

"Excellent plan," Wesley nodded, taking the bag of books and sausages from his camel.

As he placed the pack on his shoulder, an agonized scream erupted from the city center, wafting out from the square like a strong smell. The watchers ran toward the sound, making a bee line through haphazardly abandoned stalls and carts. The streets were wet from a recent rain, but everything around them, cloth and stone, seemed strangely hued with rusty red. In the center of the market, at a heavily tiled and decorated fountain, bodies lay strewn around the water source. Their faces were pocked and bleeding. The open eyes were vacant, staring. And the water dripped slowly from the fountain, splattering the attractive blue and yellow tiles with sticky blood.

"Shesha," Wesley breathed in horror.

"The plane, Wesley, NOW!" Giles yelled, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him toward the runway as the last plane leaving Algiers sputtered to life.


	14. Chapter 14

Beeping with a sudden anger, the communications console came to life. Xander smacked his lips together, groaned, and rolled over. The floor rose up beneath him as he fell from a hard, wooden chair.

"Faith to base,"

"Wha?" Xander blinked, slowly getting to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eye. Beneath Faith's soot-streaked chin on a large widescreen monitor, the clock read 4:02 AM.

"Faith to base! Come on, damnit! Answer me!"

"What? Oh. Go ahead." Xander groaned into the microphone stretching out from the console.

"Listen. I don't have time for this. There is fire raining from the friggen' sky!" The feed broke into static, but the sound remained, choppy but existent. "Do you hear me? There are fire balls the size of baseballs falling out of the sky! I don't know what to do here! This is worse than…"

"Faith?" Xander blinked, suddenly on his feet. The feed stopped, cutting her off in mid-sentence.

"…We've got demons. Vamps. They're all over the place, takin' advantage of whatever the hell is goin' on. I don't have enough troops for this! I need back up!"

"I've got your report right here, Faith. We'll do everything we can." Xander replied, already grabbing for the intercom system.

"Faith out."

Within twenty minutes, Buffy, Angel, Willow, Xander, and Spike were gathered around a small table in the kitchen. The lights were dim, the curtains closed, and a small portable television set replayed Faith's disturbing message of apocalypse.

"We have to do something!" Buffy growled, banging her hand on the table and getting to her feet. "Wake up the girls. We're going on a field trip."

"We fought a beast in L.A. that rained fire. Maybe it's back," Angel murmured, more shocked than hopeful.

"Faith has forty slayers in Cleveland. What more can we do?" Willow frowned.

"You're staying here," Giles said wearily, pulling off his glasses and rubbing them on his dusty shirttail. Beside him, Wesley carried a large wooden box with the kind of care reserved for infants.

"Giles, if this is another Shesha problem, I have to be out there!"

"You're all staying here. Faith is a slayer, she can handle herself. There's nothing more we can do for her than to get more girls hurt or killed. Now, we have a translation to do. Willow, wake Fred and meet us in the library."

Buffy stalked down the darkened hall in bare feet, a snug tank top, and a pair of fluffy bunny pajama pants. Tangled blond hair fell away from her face as she picked up speed, hurtling down a flight of stairs toward the basement. Several feet behind her, Angel followed, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his own pajama bottoms. The sounds of their footsteps echoed from the walls and up to the high ceilings as Angel followed Buffy down into the subterranean training room. Immediately, Buffy threw herself in front of a punching bag. Curling her hands into tight fists, white knuckles, she threw punch after punch into the bag, hurling it in every direction, straining the steel chain that affixed it to the ceiling. Angel stood quietly in the doorway, his shoulders nestled against the stone, arms folded across his bare chest. His brow furrowed, darkening his eyes as he watched.

Spike slid back into bed, tossing a cigarette butt into a potted plant near the blacked out window. Fred hummed quietly as she opened her eyes, pushed a wave of brown hair back from her face, and wrapped an arm gently around Spike's pale torso.

"Mornin' love," Spike smiled.

"Feels earlier than mornin'," Fred mused.

"It is. Watcher boys are lookin' for you. Research party and all that."

"Too bad we can't research in bed, huh?" Fred giggled, rolling out from under the sheets.

…

By the end of the week, three days after Faith's distress signal, Willow sat quietly at the communications console, reading a spell book to keep her mind off sleep. At a little past three, the familiar bleep of an incoming message filled the room with sound. Willow put down her book as Faith's face came onto the screen.

"Faith to base," she sighed.

"Go ahead, Faith. This is Willow."

"It's over. The fire thing-it's finally over. Lisa and Jamie are in the hospital, third degree burns, and uh, concussion. It's a mess out here. The city is mostly evacuated. Dead demons in the street. But we're on burial duty. Faith out."

…

Angel stood silently over the stove, stirring a pot of chicken noodle soup. Behind him, slumped into chairs around a low round table, Buffy and Renee stared vacantly toward opposite walls.

"We should have done something." Buffy sighed, glancing from her spot of wall up to Angel's shoulder. "All week, I've trained. Gone hunting. But what have I really done to combat this…whatever it is."

"The whole world is ending out there, and we're stuck here!" Renee agreed, looking up briefly.

"What were you going to do besides get yourself hurt out there? Bring a steel umbrella?" Angel groaned, bringing bowls of soup to the table.

Outside the kitchen door, something crashed into the wall. Angel got to his feet, throwing back his chair. The door burst open and Fred fell into the room, her glasses askew.

"Stupid door. You know, we could really use some of that hinge fixin' stuff. What's that stuff called again?"

"Fred!"

"What? Oh. Right. Um, we finished the translation thingy. Wes wants everyone in the dining room, ASAP."

…

Giles sighed, half-asleep, while Wesley finished laying out eight red clay tablets on the table. Each piece was covered in cramped glyphs, as though someone were cramming everything they could get onto a tiny piece of paper. Xander was suddenly reminded of cheat sheets on a science exam.

"The text is Brahmi, the ancient writing of India." Giles began, glancing briefly at his notes, scratched onto a yellow note pad. "The tablets were found at the Origin of the First Slayer, in a cave in the midst of the desert. The First Slayer faced the Shesha, as it tells us in this text. These tablets tell us that this creature, this beast, is one of the ancient race of demons known to us as the Old Ones. Shesha was one of the last Old Ones to plague the earth with suffering and despair. We know from these inscriptions that Shesha collects objects, sacred objects that are located in hotspots around the globe. We already know that there were objects in Argentina and India. In Algeria, we witnessed another possible attack. The rivers turned to blood, and the people were ill or dying. In Cleveland, on the Hellmouth, a rain of fireballs indicates yet another hotspot. Four in total. Half of what this creature needs.

"Unfortunately, the tablets do not tell us what the objects are, suggesting that even the sorcerers that created the First Slayer did not know the root of Shesha's power. We don't know where the remaining objects are located, nor how to prevent the Shesha from taking them."

"Then what use was this trip? Why are we wasting our time sitting here?" Buffy shot across the table.

"Sit down, Buffy." Giles replied succinctly. "What we do know is this. Each time the Shesha goes in to find an object, he creates these localized plagues, these smoke screens to cover up his activities. We can use these events to track and monitor the Shesha, to find out how many objects he has left to gain while we formulate a plan."

"So, we do have a plan?" Xander asked hopefully.

Wesley reached back into the box. From it, he pulled a thick scroll of papyrus paper, bound with a leather strap. He untied and unrolled the scroll slowly, crinkling the fragile paper. The symbols drawn on the sheet were different from those on the tablets. Smaller, closer together, they too gave off the feeling of a lot of information in a limited amount of space.

"This scroll is an addendum to the tablets, added by the first council of watchers. It is written in Sumerian, a language that the council requires all Watchers to learn. The scroll is the first written account of a prophecy, handed down in the oral tradition by several generations of slayers and sorcerers. It is one of eight known prophecies that speak of a slayer of the new age. The girl described in this scroll is a special woman, the only slayer in the past or future to find true love."

Buffy blinked, surprised. Beside her, Angel slid his hand over hers.

"She will find love in her enemy, and their two souls will be entwined forever. This slayer will prevent the fall of the new age by performing the rite of devotion known as the Unction of Souls."

"We'll do it," Buffy nodded, getting to her feet. "I just have one question."

"We'll have to research the rite, the incantations, the ingredients," Wesley was going on. He glanced up as Buffy spoke, raising an eyebrow as if to ask what the question might be.

"What's an unction?"

* * *

_Stay tuned for part 3 of TCAS: "The Unction of Souls"  
_


	15. Chapter 15

Flecks of snow and ice fell against the fortress windows. Lights in every room on three floors flickered. The natural gas heating system gurgled and whined, threatening to give way. In a collection of wool jackets and heavy winter coats, fourteen vampire slayers cut down trees for firewood.

"It's June," Buffy groaned, pulling another sweater over her head and shivering. Beside her, Willow shrugged her shoulders and tied a scarf around her neck.

"Global warming?" Dawn asked in earnest, pulling mittens out of her pockets.

"Oh come on," Xander grimaced, batting his hand at the air. "Everyone knows global warming is just a 'theory' cooked up by hippies from Oregon."

"Actually, it's been proven to be a very accurate theory on the state of dramatic weather changes," Willow replied. "But I don't think this storm has anything to do with climate change."

"Don't tell me," Buffy frowned.

"It's Shesha," Wesley confirmed twenty minutes later as the gang gathered in front of the communications console. The tiny blinking lights on the board were out, as were the lights overhead, the video monitor, and the fax machine. Lights were out all over the fortress, plunging the castle into midday darkness. Even the sun had gone out.

"A few minutes before we lost power, we received a transmission from Casey and June, stationed in Edinburgh. They were already losing power, didn't have a lot of time, but they reported a sudden extreme drop in temperature, snow and hail, the whole bit. I've compared their report and our…obvious state with the weather report for our region. There were no indications that such a storm might be possible. There are no known weather anomalies that cause this kind of temperature change."

"It's here, and we don't know where, or how to get to it, or how to stop it." Xander sighed, exasperated.

"Great. We're sitting here, freezing our asses off, and the enemy is out there! And we can't _do _anything!" Buffy exclaimed.

"This is number five," Giles frowned, studying his notes. "We must continue researching the Unction. We haven't a lot of time left to prepare."

Willow peered thoughtfully at the collection of anointing oils and essences in vials on her desk. Rubbing her arms to keep warm, she exhaled visible water vapor into the air, danced around to keep her blood moving, and returned to half-hearted concentration.

"It's a test of wills," Wes muttered, releasing a cloud of visible breath.

"Yeah, a test we're all failin'," Fred sighed, throwing another log onto the roaring fire. "It's freezin' in here!"

"And we all smell like moth balls," Willow added, scrunching her nose in disgust. "Wait! I found it!"

"Found…which one were you looking for?"

"Essence of Strangler Fig," the witch grinned, lifting a vial up toward the flickering firelight. "One down, eight to go."

"Before you continue, Willow, I'd like to ask you a favor," Giles sighed, removing his glasses in characteristic frustration. "I'd like you to explain this translation to Buffy and Angel, privately."

"Me?"

"If you would,"

Far from the library, down a maze of blackened halls filled with the howling of a high-pitched wind, Buffy stood folding warm winter sweaters on her bed, extracting them from a box of moth balls underneath a lower shelf in an armoire. Angel leaned back in an ancient, creaking chair, his nose half-heartedly shoved into a book.

"I just wish we had answers. What is this Auction of Souls thing, and how is it going to help us defeat the snake guy?" She frowned, folding another sweater. "And, I'm going to completely channel Indiana Jones here. Why does it always have to be snakes? How many friggen snakes have I faced? What is it with snakes and apocalypses?"

"Unction." He corrected her. "And, Indiana Jones?"

"We definitely need to get you to the movies more often."

"Buffy?" Willow called through the door, banging her fist belatedly against the wood.

"Come in, Will!"

"Oh, oh good. You're both here." Willow smiled, holding a large book under one wooly arm. "I have some, um, stuff to share."

Buffy curled up on the bed beside Willow, leaning back against a few florally-dressed pillows. Willow laid out the book, opened to the proper page, and placed the translation cues beside it. Angel slumped against the wall, unaffected by the cold, and listened, his eyes pointed toward the floor.

"So, the Unction. We've been doing more research, and Giles wanted me to share the details with you. I kinda familiarized myself as I was walking up here, and now I know why he didn't want to tell you. I mean, not that I'm comfortable talking about this stuff with um, you both. But…more comfy than Giles I guess. I mean, he's like your…"

"Will!" Buffy interrupted.

"Ohh, sorry. Off track. Okay. So, the Unction." Willow fumbled, staring at the page. "First of all, an unction is the anointing of oils on the body for a rite or ritual, in this case a rite. We have nine oils for this unction, which is kind of a lot. Usually, you use one, or two, maybe three, but usually not nine. Anyway, each oil has a specific meaning or purpose, and in the case of this unction, each of the nine oils goes on a different part of the body. So, back to this rite. The Unction of Souls is a rite of devotion, wherein you, Buffy, and you, Angel, will be anointed with the nine oils of the rite. As you're anointed, someone will perform a chanting spell which binds the oils to your soul as well as your physical form. When this process is complete, you'll be rejoined privately for the second part of the rite. An incantation will be performed by the two chanters and the two anointers around the four points of the room in which you are together. You will then join as one, physically and spiritually, and your souls will bind together."

"Will," Buffy murmured, "All this binding and unity, are you suggesting we're to have…"

"Yeah."

"But Angel's…"

"My soul is intact," Angel whispered, almost as shocked as the slayer. "There's no danger of Angelus returning."

"And the world will end if we don't…"

"Um, it's a possibility. Look, I'm gonna go. I have some more…work…"

Buffy stared at the pile of folded sweaters as Willow rushed from the room. Clenching and unclenching her hands, she tried to form a sentence, some kind of communication. Her voice seemed buried deep within her throat.

"Buffy," Angel swallowed, moving away from the wall to sit precariously on the edge of her bed. "Maybe we should…talk about this."

"What's there to say?" The Slayer burst out suddenly, gooseflesh rising on the back of her neck. "The world is coming to an end, and to fix it, I have to have sex with the only man I've ever really loved. And it's a sure thing that he won't turn into a murderous demon and try to kill me, and my family, and my friends. And for the first time ever, I am finally getting something that I want, and I don't…"

"Stop," Angel frowned, sliding across the mattress and pressing his hand firmly against her arm. The slayer stiffened, but fell instantly silent, staring blankly at the fire crackling sadly at the end of the room. His large hand slid up her arm and around her shoulders, pulling her gently into an embrace against his ribs. Angel's fingers slid through her blond hair, tenderly brushing strands from her face and neck. And when she shivered, he moved easily to wrap the corners of the blanket around her form.

Further down the hall, Willow curled up under the covers of her own bed and aimed a flashlight over the Unction text. Her lips moved silently as she read the words, as though trying to process them a second time.

"You were right," she gasped as the bedroom door opened, and a tall green demon in red silk walked into the room.

"Unfortunately," Lorne moaned. "I keep hoping for a glitch in the empathy system."

"I have to speak to Buffy,"

"All those poor girls; where are they going to go?"

"Back home, I guess. It's too dangerous to keep them here after…"

"We could send for Faith. She makes great back up."

"Whatever we do, we'll have to do it fast. We're running out of time."


	16. Chapter 16

Giles groaned, rubbing his eyes before pushing his glasses up over his nose. He pulled open the bedroom door and stared, wearily, at Willow and Lorne, standing outside with several books loaded up in their arms. Over his shoulder, Lorne carried a red, steel weapon tipped with a deadly sharp wooden stake.

"It's four o'clock in the morning," Giles frowned, pulling the door open further and stepping back toward the creaking desk beside his bed.

"Sorry. I wouldn't have come, I mean, we wouldn't have come if it weren't urgent." Willow replied, leaning against the edge of the four poster bed. She cracked open a book and laid it out on the crumpled bedspread.

"Do you remember, a few weeks ago, Lorne read Kyra and Renee?"

"Yes,"

"I read that they had no future, not like they didn't have a good future or a bad one, or that they were about to die or anything. They literally had no future at all."

"Yes. I remember."

"Well, the watcher's council goes into great detail on the requirements for the Unction. One of the requirements is that the slayer must be at full and complete strength. She cannot be sick, or wounded. She cannot be mentally diverted or extremely stressed."

"And she cannot split her powers with every girl with slayer potential in the world…" Giles finished, removing his glasses a second time.

"Right. All those poor little Slayer-ettes have to be demystified and sent packing. They'll have new futures, but not futures here."

"Buffy isn't going to like this plan,"

"It's the only option we have. This Unction is absolutely necessary to defeat this Shesha thing. Without it, we lose." Willow frowned, gesturing at the book.

"She's made sacrifices before. She can make them again."

Three days passed with Willow researching the required spell, Giles and Wesley scrambling over the preparations for the Unction, and Xander Harris making mysterious phone calls late into the night.

"Where are you going?" Dawn grumbled, staring up at Xander from a folded bed pillow.

"The airport," he replied, pulling a shirt over his beefy frame.

"Okay. But why?"

"Gotta pick up a package for Giles. Be back before you know it."

"A package? What, they don't have mailmen in Scotland?"

"It isn't that kind of package. Look, just go back to sleep, okay? I'll be back in a few hours."

"I'm coming." Dawn slid out of the other side of the bed and grabbed her jeans from the back of a chair.

"Dawn, honey, just stay here. I'll come back, join you. We'll wake up together at a nice normal hour."

"I'm coming. No talking me out of it. Now get your coat."

The airport was four lonely hours away from the highlands fortress, through miles of sheep grazing lands, chicken farms, and small sleepy villages with thatched roofs covered in damp moss. Xander kept his eye on the road, squirming occasionally in his seat to keep from drifting off. Dawn dozed beside him, her head bent at an odd angle. After three long hours in the yawning overcast, the sun peeked from a few bitter grey clouds, casting a beam of light upon the airport's control tower. A single puddle-jumper from British Airways puttered down onto the runway. Xander threw his foot on the gas.

"Xander," Faith grunted, ambling down a linoleum hallway, carrying a single black duffel bag over her shoulder. "Shoulda known they'd send ol' one eye to pick up the spare luggage. What're ya drivin'?"

"It's the only car in the lot, Faith. I'm sure we'll find it. Any other bags?"

"I ain't plannin' on stayin' long."

"No complaints from me. Just for your information, you're riding in the side car."

Faith frowned at the olive green, rusted out Citroen lingering across three spaces in the empty parking lot. Dawn remained cuddled up in the front passenger seat, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her eyes flickered and opened wide as Xander popped open the back door.

"Faith?" She gagged, sitting bolt upright. "We're picking up Faith?"

"Apparently." Xander frowned.

"Oh great. As if the castle isn't full enough with the entire cast of Angel's Investigations, forty some-odd slayers, my sister, and the Scoobies. Now we have Faith? Great."

"Ain't my idea of a four star vacation either. I was savin' for the Bahamas."

"Alright, enough. We're going back to the castle. Maybe if I floor it, we can make it back before next Tuesday."

--

Buffy stretched, reaching toward the ceiling with both arms, her toes pointing toward the far wall. Smacking her lips together, she slid out of the bed, gently placing Angel's outstretched arm over his chest. His eyes flickered.

"Morning," he said gently, watching her pull off the tee shirt from the day before and throw on a tank top.

"Thank you," Buffy replied, keeping her eyes on the floor. "For last night, I mean."

"I…yeah. You're welcome."

"I have to…uh, I have to go. Work out."

"Sure."

"I'll talk to you later." Buffy grunted into the door, which she opened, stepped out of, and pulled shut behind her. Angel stared at the closed door, the iron handle swinging slightly. He shifted slightly on the mattress, turning over to crawl from the bed. A figure loomed out of the musty, dark room, dressed in a fashionable khaki suit and a starched white dress shirt. Cordelia Chase frowned, her warm eyes turning down at their corners, her pink lips twisted into a look of mourning and discomfort.

"Cordy," Angel sighed, pushing himself from the bed.

"We need to talk."

"Cordelia. You should have told me about this…this unction thing. I don't even know how to look at her, how to talk to her. It's been a long time since I've seen her and now...now this?"

"What was I supposed to say? Huh? Angel, I need you to leave the Evil Lawfirm of Death, go get back your soul, sleep with your true love who is also your ex-girlfriend, then save the world? Are you kidding?"

"A head's up would have been great."

"Well, we're all stuck here now. The thing is, we have an unforeseen difficulty."

"Great."

"Willow and Lorne have discovered a clause in the unction that even I didn't know about."

"You're the messenger for the Powers that Be. How is that even possible?"

"They're in charge of fate, but bad with the memos? Listen, the point is, the extra slayers-the potentials. They'll be relieved of their powers."

"What?" He turned, staring at her. His angry frown revealed a kind of indeterminable relief.

"Don't act like you aren't a bit happy about it. I know you still remember the girl who cut off Spike's hands."

"Happy isn't the right word."

"The point is, the slayers, Buffy, Faith, they won't be happy about it. It was Buffy's idea to create an army of potential slayers, to use that power base to fight and defeat The First. She did well, and the PTB are extremely proud of her achievement. It wasn't written in the cards. It wasn't meant to happen. Without that event, Buffy and Faith would have lost their lives. The First would have gained more and more power. A new generation of slayer would be born. But the Potentials have lived out their purpose. There are too many of them. They now have the potential to be untrained, insane, corrupted. And they have the potential to ruin our only chance to defeat the Shesha."

"You want me to support the decision."

"You already support the decision, Angel. I can see it in your soul."

"And the unction?"

"I don't think you need help with that one, Big Guy."

"Cordy…"

"Don't say anything. I know you love her. Heck, it was meant to be. But it doesn't mean that I'm not a little jealous."

--

Two watchers, a witch, and a vampire sat uneasily across the table from Buffy and Faith. Books lie open on the table. Arms had been crossed angrily over chests. Beads of sweat clung to Buffy's temples, a leftover of her workout in the basement training room.

"We have a problem," Giles began. His brow furrowed.

"Just point me in the right direction," Faith grinned, her eyes smoldering.

"What is it? Shesha again?" Buffy added.

"It has to do with the Unction, actually."

"I heard about that. Nice goin', B."

"Look, do we really have to talk about that right now? I was in the midst of a workout and…"

"Buffy. The unction is on hold right now until we can take care of another, much larger problem."

"So tell me what the problem is, and I'll fix it."

"The girls have to be sent home," Willow sighed, "And it has to be done today."

"Sent home? What are you talkin' about?" Faith blinked, leaning into the table.

"We need those girls, Will. They're our army. They helped us defeat The First. They're our eyes and ears all over the world!"

"Buffy, your power is diminished as long as the potentials remain. And there can be no diminishing your powers if the Unction is to be successful. The Scythe's spell will be broken. We will arrange for the girls away from their homes to be sent back to their parents."

"And the girls that don't have parents? What about them?" Faith continued, getting to her feet, fire in her eyes.

"They'll be sent back to wherever they came from, Faith. We have a world to save."

"Isn't there another way?" Buffy asked, reaching across the table as though grasping for an answer.

"There's no other way, Buffy." Angel answered her, frowning. "If we cannot perform the Unction, the apocalypse will happen. Shesha will take over, and we'll die. They can't help us in this fight."

"Buffy, you'll need to come down to the banquet hall just after sunset. We'll be ready for you and the girls by then."

--

"We can't do this to them," Faith growled as she and Buffy stalked down a series of halls toward the far wing, occupied entirely by potentials.

"What else are we going to do? This unction thing has to happen if we're going to defeat this Shesha guy."

"What if we bound the girls to me instead of you?"

"Would you really want to do that? What if they also gained your past, Faith? Your tendencies?"

"I'm over that now. Healed, moved on."

"Faith,"

"We can't abandon them, B. Not after everything we've been through."

"If there's one thing I've learned, being a slayer, it's that we don't get to make our own choices. They're made for us. We don't get to love, to have families, to make friends just because we want to. We don't get to date or make love or be happy. We're vampire slayers, Faith. We're chosen."

"You ever wish you hadn't been chosen?" Faith frowned, looking down at her trembling hands.

Buffy stared blankly at the door to the girl's dormitory. "Every single day."

--

"Are your ready?" Willow asked gently, peering across the scythe reclined upon the floor. The banquet hall was filled to the brim with young women, with television monitors hooked up to feeds of more young women around the world, stationed in regions of violent activity. Most of the girls were in tears, their hands balled into fists, their eyes darted toward the scythe. Renee and Kyra sat off in an empty corner, angrily berating themselves for revealing their weakness to Lorne.

"I'll never be ready." Buffy replied, laying her hand upon the weapon. Willow reached over as well, her eyes cast toward the heavens, her hair glowing iridescent. She spoke clearly, loudly, an incantation in a language so ancient, even she could not recognize it. The words flowed from her tongue, over her lips, filling the room with magick. Tendrils of light flew from the bodies of the girls gathered, flew in through the windows and doors, through the walls themselves. The energy and power of the Slayer returned to Buffy's body, filling her up with a strength she'd never thought she'd missed. Angel and Giles watched silently over Willow's shoulders as Buffy's eyes rolled back into her head. She collapsed backward upon the floor, her eyes falling shut.


	17. Chapter 17

The sun dipped timidly over the horizon, casting a hazy violet glow over the grey hills of the overcast highlands. Three stories beneath the leftward leaning tower at the far western edge of the fortress, Xander and Dawn herded a group of five young women toward the unmarked white van humming beside Giles' dilapidated Citroen. Renee's shaggy brown locks appeared among the small crowd, a backpack slung over her shoulder, a lucky stake clutched in her left hand. Morose, she lifted her eyes toward the tower, catching the defeated stare of her leader leaning out from the window.

In three days, the majority of the fortress's young potentials had cleared out of their dormitory, leaving behind rumpled sheets, carved wooden crosses, and a variety of weapons. Xander and Dawn had been given the less than appealing duty of carting groups of women to and from the airport at all hours of day and night, listening to their complaints, their roaring silence, their painful pleas for reinstatement. Faith leaned against the doorway, far below the tower, her arms crossed over her chest, unable to do anything but seethe and sulk.

The rite had gotten underway as soon as the scythe's spell had been reversed. Buffy was revived from a dreamless sleep and lead up a rickety wooden spiral staircase to the top floor of the western tower. There, she was secured inside her own north facing room, more like a prisoner than a champion. The room had a frumpy bed, a square of carpet material, a kerosene lamp, and a preparation table.

"You're kidding," Buffy blinked, staring at the room from two inches inside the doorway.

"According to the rite's instructions, you're to be secluded for three days prior to the rite, seeing and speaking only to your assistants. That would be me and Fred." Willow frowned, holding out the musty book, in case Buffy didn't believe her.

"Who's taking care of the girls?"

"Xander and Dawnie. They're making four trips daily to the airport. Gunn and Connor are in charge of flight reservations. We have it all taken care of."

"And Angel?"

"He's across the tower, in the same kind of situation, the same seclusion. Giles and Wesley are with him."

"So I won't see him until the rite?"

"It'll be okay, Buffy. It really will. I have to get some supplies for the first part of the rite, but I'll be back. Just…try not to wig, okay?"

_Try not to wig_, Buffy frowned as she pulled back from the window and did another circle around the empty room. In three days, she'd done a small handful of preparations. On the first night, after being left alone in the room until sunset, Willow and Fred had visited her for a ritual bath. Apparently the Watcher's Council of old had been unconcerned with the embarrassment of public nudity. Buffy had stripped down and crawled into a brown barrel, the only portable bath tub anyone could find. It was filled with lukewarm water that had been hot when it left the kitchen, and the nine anointing oils that would be used in ceremonies to come. The smells together were reminiscent of hot mud mixed with carnations and rosemary. As Buffy sat, shivering, Willow poured handfuls of the cooling brine over Buffy's head, while Fred stood a few feet away, chanting Sumerian from a thick, dusty book.

On the second day, Buffy was roused at the crack of dawn for three hours of chanting and guided meditation. Willow sat calmly before her, on the floor, shrouded in a cool magical mist. Meanwhile, the Slayer repeated a complicated mantra in the difficult Sumerian language. The instructions meant that she never fell asleep, but because there was an intended magical effect, the spell had to be done three times before Buffy was permitted to return to her uncomfortable slumber.

At last, the third day of unusual, magical torture had arrived. It felt similar to what a bride might go through before the big day, with stress weighing heavily on her shoulders while excited assistants carried on in the background, bringing in potions and exiting with the majority of the furniture. Buffy watched Willow and Fred run in and out of the meager room for an hour, but when boredom set in, she turned her attentions to the gaping window.

Two doors down the bustling hallway, Angel sat in a similarly secluded room with a neatly made bed, a kerosene lamp on a small table, and a square of carpet on the floor. Over the single window hung a blackout curtain, keeping rivulets of sunlight from entering the small space. Angel kneeled in a corner on the floor, clad only in a pair of black, wrinkled pajama pants. With his hands leaning face-up on his knees, his neck bent, and his eyes closed, the vampire sat in silent meditation.

"It's time," Wesley said at last, pulling back the curtain to reveal the moon rising overhead. Giles stood toward the back of the room, pouring oils from vials into small porcelain bowls. Wesley joined him at a long table, the only piece of furniture now adorning the tower cell. The surface was dressed with a piece of silk cloth, and atop it stood three blue candles, burning brightly. Wesley retrieved a bundle of dried sage and rolled it through the flame of one candle, lighting the plant. The leaves crackled and sparked as they burned down, filling the room with musky smoke.

"Stand in the center of the room, facing west, looking out of the window," Willow instructed the slayer, blowing out the dying flames on her bundle of sage, scattering ash upon the floor. "Hold out your hands, face up, and close your eyes. Think of nothing."

Fred sat upon the floor, her back leaning against the wall, and opened a large book across her folded lap. Adjusting her glasses upon her nose and lifting the lamp near the pages, she began to read aloud. Fred struggled over the words, staring hard at each syllable.

"Ukur-re a-na-àm mu-un-tur-re."

Willow began to wave the smoldering sage over Buffy's exposed form, clad only in a white linen gown that stretched to mid-thigh. It, too, reeked of the ritual water she'd bathed in a few days before. Like everything the slayer came in contact with, the gown had been washed in anointment oils and laid out to air dry.

"E-na-kín-na gú-im-šu-rin-na-kam túg-bir7-a-ni nu-kal-la-ge," Giles chanted, standing near the wall, his photocopied section of the translation held steadily in his fist. "Da m  
níg-ú-gu-dé-a-ni nu-kin-kin-d a m."

In the center of the room, Angel stood naked, his eyes closed, his face turned toward the moonlight stretching into the tower, casting the floor in a hazy light. Wesley placed the smoky bundle of sage in a bowl of cold water on the stone near his feet. The smoke tapered off suddenly, leaving only the lingering sweet scent. The watcher walked to the established table and lifted a small, decorative bowl. Across the room, Giles began to read out the blessing.

"Níg-ge-na-da a-ba in-da-di nam-ti ì-ù-tu." Fred chanted, smoothing her hand over the turned pages, adjusting the lamp's dancing flame to shed more light in the darkening room. Willow dipped her fingers into an ornate bowl, painted with Sumerian cuniform, the symbols that made up the word "soul." With two fingers outstretched, she touched the exposed wrists of the slayer, held up toward the ceiling.

For nearly an hour, the ritual continued, until each of nine points on the body had been anointed with nine different sacred oils. When it was finally done, the moon was high overhead, no longer reaching through the open window of the chamber, but yawning over the highlands, stretching fingers into all corners of the room.

"It's time," Willow smiled gently, placing the last porcelain bowl on the floor in a semicircular pattern. Buffy opened her eyes, and let them fall upon the witch's serene face. In her head, the slayer struggled to suppress the worries, the anxiety that clouded her thoughts. She walked slowly to the door connecting either chamber to a central bedroom, prepared according to the specifics of the spell, with an extra touch of romance from Willow.


	18. Chapter 18

_Author's Note: This chapter is rated PG-15 for references to sexual activities and some soft-core adult material. You've been warned. _

* * *

He stepped slowly into the room, a white towel wrapped loosely about his midriff, his pale skin glistening with anointing oils. His gaze danced around the room, taking in the hundred white candles on wrought iron stands, the soft glow of moonlight dipping into the center of the room through seven small windows near the ceiling, each painted with a special UV-protecting glaze. A four poster bed sat in the center of the room, as though drawing the eye to the room's intended purpose. The bed spread was thick but lightweight for summer, designed with a beautiful British tapestry. The sheets were the first sheets he'd seen in three days that did not smell of anointing oils.

At last, his eyes fell upon Buffy Summers, standing with her back against the far door, her arms clasped around her chest, a gauzy white gown hiding her nakedness. Even in the dim light, cut off from most of the world for three days, she looked beautiful. Waves of golden hair fell over her shoulders. Her warm green eyes trembled slightly with anxiety. Her heart beat with a kind of quickened pace that betrayed her excitement and her fear equally.

"Buffy," he began, meaning to speak aloud and managing only a whisper. His lips he coaxed to smile, though they would not comply.

"Do you remember that prophecy about us? About me?" Buffy replied without ceremony. She moved forward into the room, leaned against the edge of the bed.

"Which one?"

"It said I was the only Slayer that would ever find true love. How can that be, though? Why am I the only one? I mean, it's obviously possible, right? And how come it couldn't prophesize that it would work out? I mean, I've been in love with you for, what, almost a decade, and we've only made love once? Ever? And you turned evil and tried to kill me! And who said I even wanted true love? I mean, why would the Powers that Be dangle love in front of my face, and then pull it away again whenever I really need it?"

"Twice," Angel replied succinctly, lowering his face toward the floor.

"Believe me, I'd remember if it were twice. It was once. You went all evil. It was badness. There was much badness there."

"I need to tell you something," Angel frowned, gesturing her to lie down atop the sheets.

"What about the ritual?" She asked quietly, crawling under the covers as she did so.

"It can wait."

Angel crawled onto the bed beside her, leaning back against the still maple headboard, his eyes glued to his folded hands as though he might find answers in them. For years, he'd kept the secret of their one perfect day to himself, telling Doyle only once. For nearly a year, he'd had the same dream of their night intertwined. It haunted him like a ghost, hovering on his thoughts, weighing on his shoulders. She'd died anyway, and it had all been a waste.

"When I first moved to L.A., you came to visit me at the office," Angel sighed, recollecting her anger, her frustration. "You'll remember that we were arguing, a demon came through the window, and I killed it so quickly that you thought it was strange."

"I remember."

"That day, it didn't happen the way you remember that it happened. We chased the demon into the sewers. It's blood mixed with mine and regenerated me. It made me human."

"W…what?" Buffy sat up on her elbows, shoving the blanket away.

"It was our dreams come true. I'd never seen you so happy, nor been so happy myself. We spent the day together, and the night as well. We made love, Buffy, for the second time. And I never woke up suddenly, my soul escaping my body. But the Powers told me that if I remained a man, you would die. I couldn't protect you as a man. I couldn't be there to fight for you, to keep you safe. The Powers took back the day, and made it so that I alone would remember."

"You were alive," Buffy whispered, her hand seeking out his, clutching him as though he would escape.

"And you died anyway."

"I'm the Slayer. It happens."

He shook his head with a kind of sadness, his hand rising from his lap to her cheek. His mouth sought hers, determined to remove the doubt, the cynicism that hung about her like a shroud. How long had it been since he'd kissed her so deeply that he'd felt her soul reach out and wrap around him? He leaned over her, pushing her back upon the pillows, seeking out her tongue with his. Erratic breaths escaped her nose and mouth. Her arms flew up around his neck, holding tightly. He growled softly against her lips.

His hands slid up under her gown, pushing it around her hips, her breasts, over her head. It fell in a lump on the stone floor, abandoned. Her fingers curled through his hair, over his shoulders as his mouth sought out her breast, smothering her muscular figure in kisses. She whimpered with pleasure, stretching her hips up toward his smooth chest, his large hands.

"Buffy," he whispered roughly against her ear, leaning over her, one arm thrust between her thighs while the other stroked her sweat-streaked face.

"Angel," she breathed, stretching up to kiss his lips, his exposed throat, his cool face.

He sank into her, shoving her firmly against the headboard, sliding inside her like a hand in a glove. Against his cool skin, she was burning with heat, her heart beating fast and loud, ringing in his ears.

--

Around the tower, at each directional point, a bright blue candle burned in a porcelain bowl. Each bowl had been marked with the cuniform figures for Unction of Souls. Together, they created a ring of pale blue light, encircling the building, protective and unbroken. Willow lifted her eyes to the windows, waiting. She shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

--

Her voice erupted suddenly, a strained cry of pleasure that echoed from each wall, flickering the flames of the candles around the room. Streaks of salty tears fell down the sides of her face, soaking into her hair, into the white pillow swathed in satin. Angel groaned in response, his hands grasping hers, his eyes half-closed, beads of sweat and anointing oil rolling over his chest, dripping onto her tightened stomach.

"Please," Buffy gasped, digging her fingernails into his hands, her head lolling backward. "Now."

"Now," Angel confirmed, dropping his mouth to hers, pushing his tongue between her lips. Blue light exploded from within, swirling up into the tower and escaping through the closed windows. Streams of light shot out of tiny imperfections in the stone and mortar that made up the tower itself. Together, the lovers gasped with pleasure, bound together as one soul.


	19. Chapter 19

She sat up suddenly, beads of sweat gathering around her hairline, dribbling down the sides of her face. Her green eyes seemed paler, ghostly, as though she'd seen her worst nightmare come through. Breathing heavily, her breasts rising and falling with unusual speed, she grasped the sheets for support. The room came into focus. Most of the candles had burned down to the floor and gone out. A few scattered flames flickered in pools of pale blue wax. The sheets were rumpled, wrapped around and between her legs like stubborn vines, pulling her back toward the cozy, comfy bed. Angel slept peacefully beside her, attractive and inviting, one arm tossed across her side of the bed, waiting to pull her in. Still, thoughts and visions swirled in her mind, forcing her out of the blankets and into the steely cold tower, across the stone floor, out of the center door, and down a flight of spiral stairs.

Two hours before dawn, the fortress was uneasily quiet. There were a few faint rustlings of potentials packing their belongings, grabbing an early breakfast, chattering over hot cups of instant coffee. Walking toward the library, she caught the faint murmurings of researchers, the insomniac watchers, the caffeine obsessed. Buffy adjusted the hem of her nightgown and walked inside.

"Buffy!" Xander exclaimed, surprised. A piece of powdered donut fell from his lower lip and onto the table. Dawn, beside him in a surprisingly see-through camisole and pajama pants, folded her arms suddenly over her chest and popped a donut hole to avoid questions and answers.

"After this Shesha thing is over, we need to talk." Buffy muttered, narrowing her eyes. "But first things first. I need Giles, and Wesley. Where are they?"

"Uhm, Wesley is in the kitchen making tea," Dawn said through a mouthful of powdered sugar.

"And Giles is in his room, sleeping. At least, I hope sleeping."

"Fine," Buffy sighed. "Look, we need to get on this now. I had one of those weird prophetic dream things. Xander, go wake Angel and Giles. Have them meet us down here in ten minutes. Dawn, you go grab Wesley, and donuts for everyone. And get dressed! Didn't Mom teach you anything?"

"Totally not one to talk!" Dawn balked.

"Unction ritual. Totally different circumstances. Anyway, I need real clothes, and I'll grab Willow and Faith. We'll all meet back here in ten minutes."

--

"So basically, we're tunneling into the ground," Buffy shrugged as Wesley arranged a glossy world map on the table.

"With what? Our magical drill?" Xander countered, grumbling sleepily while preparing for another donut.

"It won't be a problem. We're taking the direct route, through the Deeper Well. There's a door in the side of the wall, and we'll go through that to access the birth place of the Shesha."

"Who do you want on this trip, B?" Faith asked from the sidelines, half-awake, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Angel and Connor, you and I, Faith. We'll only need a couple pairs of hands and we don't want anyone who could risk getting killed."

"Five by five."

"So when do we leave?" Connor grinned from the doorway, shouldering a long sword.

"Sunset. We'll head out at sunset."

--

By afternoon, Buffy was digging around in the armory, pulling the best swords from a case on the wall. Every blade had nicks and divots, each weapon a well-used piece of equipment. Behind her, Giles assembled crossbows.

"What else do you know about the rite?" Buffy called over her shoulder, pulling a decent looking sword from the case and dumping it into a short steel cart. She turned around to face him, swinging another thick broadsword in her hand.

"I don't know how it works, or how to make it work." Giles sighed in confession. He held the bow up near his face and affixed an arrow to its left wing.

"Great," Buffy sighed, pushing the cart down to a long wall of battleaxes.

"Do you have idea what you'll be facing? Did the dream give you any kind of hint?"

"No. But I have a feeling it'll be bad, Giles. This is an Ancient One. I mean, that's gotta have some killer kickbacks, right?"

"Uh, yes. I suppose."

"How about stakes? You think we'll need stakes?"

"Unlikely."

"Well, I do like to have Mr. Pointy around. You know, as a safety blanket."

"Perhaps you should take the Scythe,"

"Faith is taking the scythe. Ever since the potentials…I just don't feel comfortable holding it."

"Buffy, the potentials had served their purpose. Without the unction…"

"We don't even know what the unction will do for us. Until we do, I'm not going to count on it. Hand me that dagger, will you?"

--

Angel sat heavily on the edge of a chair in the kitchen, leaning his elbow against the table. The room appeared harsh and dark without the brightness of the Potentials filling it at all hours. The scant room only added to the imposing sense of doom hanging on his shoulders.

"You wanted to see me?" Connor frowned, standing in the doorway, his mood instantly changed by the sight of his brooding father.

"Yeah," Angel grunted. "Have a seat."

"I was about to go out and spar with Faith. Can it wait?"

"We're leaving in a few hours. I just wanted to make sure you…you know I have as much faith in you as Buffy, right?"

"You're worried."

"Of course I'm worried. It's my job."

"It's okay, Dad." Connor sighed, half-smiling. His hand fell lightly on Angel's shoulder. "I'll be okay. We'll all be okay."

"Just…remember what I taught you…"

On the wall, the castle's intercom crackled, and an insistent voice squealed out across the airwaves.

"We need everyone to the banquet hall, now! We will convene in five minutes. Five minutes!"

--

The banquet table buzzed with the voices of the assembled teams. Gunn leaned over a bowl of cornflakes. Lorne rubbed the back of his head, anxiously awaiting news. Buffy and Faith stood alongside one another, each slayer armed with a broadsword. Wesley stood at the head of the table with a television monitor and a stack of reports on white paper.

"We need to get teams assembled and out the door. There's no time to waste. I've stuck everyone who isn't headed to the Well in teams. You each have an assignment, an airplane ticket, and full access to the armory."

"What the hell is going on, Wes?" Angel barked, confused.

"We have reports coming in from points all over the globe. Large cities, mostly, or locations of prominent demonic activity. In the last twenty-four hours, we've received reports of flooding, demonic attacks, fires, people in danger. We need to get out there."

"Willow, Gunn, you're headed for Paris. We need you to work on some spells with the coven, try to take care of the outbreaks where you can. Fred and Spike, Los Angeles. They've got a major demon problem, unknown species. Giles, you and I are headed back to the desert. They're dealing with a massive water shortage. I have a couple of spells we can work on."

"And what about the rest? The rest of the world?" Buffy blinked, stabbing the floor with her weapon.

"I've got witches and potentials ready for battle if it comes to that," Xander replied from the back of the room. "Dawn and I are heading to London to try an evacuation strategy with some government guys."

"Let's get moving. We're leaving for the airport in a half hour!"


	20. Chapter 20

"He's still here," Angel frowned, his dark eyes falling on the decrepit remains of the Truthsayer, Drogyn. Wedged into a seated position across the narrow bridge, a brownish skull, still wearing a thinning scalp, lay propped between the bars of a wrought iron balustrade. "We never buried him."

"And we don't have time now." Buffy frowned, turning away from the piecemeal skeleton. "Make sure your harnesses are tight. I don't need anyone falling off a wobbly sarcophagus and releasing another one of these suckers into the world."

Faith snapped a steel carabiner over the iron railing, a clang echoing down into the depths of the Well. Looping a piece of heavy nylon rope through the device, she threw one leg over the fence.

"You're sure this thing is going to hold me, B?" Faith muttered, staring down into the abyss that stretched through the Earth.

"It'll hold you." Buffy replied with a grimace, already stretching her legs out between the dirt wall and an intricately carved ivory sarcophagus.

"So, where to?" Connor grinned, bouncing the circular glow of a flashlight off the walls. He dangled four feet beneath the bridge, his legs curled up against his torso.

"Down. The entrance is somewhere along the wall, but…"

"Vague city. Gotcha. I've had my share of weird dreams."

"Is there a share for those?" Angel grumbled, feeding out a green nylon line as he descended past his son, along the opposite wall. "Two hundred years of psychotropic dreams, and now I find out there's a share."

"Angel?" Buffy called from across the 'room', shifting her hands over the thick dirty walls, leaning precariously against an uneasy pile of Ancient Ones' bones.

"Already on it," he replied, looking over his shoulder at Connor. "Shine that light over here."

The walls stretched further down into the abyss at the center of the Earth. Buffy stopped briefly, her hand stretched across the lid of a coffin while the other swept beads of sweat from her brow. In the beams of the flashlights, waves of heat distorted the piles of remains. Tapping her toe against a crumbling stone lid for support, Faith peeled away the sleeves of her leather jacket and hooked the coat on a nearby ledge.

"If we die down here, don't bury me without my jacket," Faith frowned nostalgically.

"We're not going to die down here. We've been through worse than this," Buffy reassured her with a slightly quivering voice.

"The first Evil? The Mayor? My own brush with the forces of less than goodness? No, B, we've never been through this. Not together anyway."

"What's the First Evil?" Connor blinked, looking up from the expanse of wall he'd been prodding with the butt of the flashlight.

"Just some crabby demon," Faith grinned. "They're always trying to convince you that they're the baddest, the oldest, the wisest, the most evil. See, with Slayers, there's no one to compete with."

"Or at least, there shouldn't be," Buffy sighed, thrusting her fist into a murky, slippery patch of thick, watery mud. "Found it!"

"The door?" Angel asked, looking up from the wall. Dirt streaked his white undershirt. Streaks of sweat shone along the sides of his face.

"Either that or one heck of a sink hole. This has to be it." Buffy dug into the sickly brown wall, pulling away armfuls of sticky mud. Faith scrambled up alongside her, pulling at the hole, tearing away chunks of the surface.

Following Buffy, Faith, and Connor, Angel sank through the gaping wound that served as a door, fifteen miles beneath the surface. The hole lead curiously into a densely dark cave, as cool as the Well was warm. Sweat that had streaked their faces and dampened their hair now seeped back into the skin, leaving behind trails of gooseflesh. Buffy wrapped a hand cautiously around the hilt of a broadsword tied to her thigh.

"So where's the welcoming committee? There's always a welcoming committee."

"Behind you," Angel growled, his features contorting into the menacing vampire glare.

Four snake-like demons slid out of the darkness, pushing their way through the beam of Faith's raised flashlight. Skin colored a sickly green was covered in diamond shaped scales, layered over one another like tight-fitting body armor. One of the creatures blinked in the sprawl of unnatural light, his lower eyelids rising up over pale yellow irises. In place of a standard human nose, the hybrid creatures had two almond shaped nostrils, their openings covered by a flap of loose green skin.

Buffy shuddered slightly, the tiny blond hairs on the back of her neck rising to attention. She grasped the sword's hilt tightly and ripped it from its sheath, brandishing the weapon toward her half-hidden opponents. Behind her, beside her, Buffy listened to the swords of leather against steel, the click of an arrow set into place on a crossbow.

"Faith!" Buffy spoke sharply, throwing an arm back toward the slayer, coaxing her to the front. An arrow spun past her head, shooting directly into a demon's shoulder. It hissed, sneered, growled in response, but seemed otherwise unfazed by the attack.

"Not good," Faith frowned, tossing away the bow, reaching for a short dagger lashed to her waist.

Angel growled, a demonic face overtaking his human mask. Lifting a heavy broadsword into the air, he slashed sharply, attempting to sever the head from the torso of a snake-like beast to his right. The creature let out a piercing scream, so loud it seemed as though the ground itself receded from the sound. Connor lifted his hands over his ears, dropping his weapon. The axe clattered to the ground, useless, forgotten.

"Connor! Pick it up!" Angel yelled over the ringing in his ears, lifting the sword again for a second blow to his opponent.

"Screw this," Faith smirked, throwing down her weapon to remove a third from its holster over her shoulder. Even in the near blackness, the Scythe glistened with menacing intent. "Why hold back on minions? Maybe they'll get the message back to the big Boss."

Winding the weapon through the air, Faith brought the axe blade sharply down, throwing steel through mutant flesh. The piercing scream of a fallen demon cut off sharply. To her left, Buffy thrust her hand behind the hilt of her sword, driving the weapon into the torso of a second creature. With so much power behind the blade, it impaled the pathetic creature, a sticky yellow fluid oozing from its wounds.

"Two down," Connor grinned triumphantly, retrieving his axe from the ground and throwing it through the cool atmosphere of the cave. Another piercing scream quieted abruptly. "Oops, three."

"Four," Angel confirmed with the crunch of bones and tendons.

Faith retrieved the flashlight from the ground, dropped carelessly in the fight. The beam rolled across walls dripping with condensation. Scraping marks from the feet of demons covered the sandy floor. Buffy panted, her arms caked to the elbow in greasy mud, streaks of dirt covering her face, mixed with sweat. Connor grinned foolishly, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. Behind him, a disembodied leg shuffled toward them.

"Maybe they just like the number four," Faith growled, grunting out the last of her sentence as she lifted the Scythe again.

"Buffy! Behind you!" Angel yelled, throwing up a hand as another creature shot up like a Jack-in-the-box behind her, sinking two sharp fangs into her shoulder. A spasm of pain followed shortly by tingling shot down the Slayer's arm, spreading into the tips of her fingers and radiating upward again. Two feet away, Angel's arm jerked suddenly, sensations of pain and tingling bolting down the length of his forearm and back up toward his shoulder.

"Unction," Angel groaned briefly, turning to throw a fierce punch into the gaping nostrils of a snake-like demon.

"B?" Faith panted, wiping viscous yellow fluid onto her pant leg.

"We don't have time for this," Buffy replied, holding her good hand over her throbbing arm. "We need to get to the Shesha."

"We got your back. Me and Connor. We'll take 'em out, catch up with you later."

"Definitely," Connor added somewhere behind them.

"And B," Faith smirked with a kind of reckless confidence. "Take this."

Before she had a chance to argue, Buffy found her fingers wrapping tightly around the hilt of the Scythe.


End file.
